Reverb
by MacBedh
Summary: The past shapes the present: the present reshapes the past. In 2009, MacGyver's retirement is disturbed by rumours, old shadows, and unexpected dangers.
1. Present Imperfect

Macgyver, _verb transitive_. To improvise a solution, usually to a mechanical or technical problem, using available repurposed found objects.

- x -_  
_

**Reverb**

_One: Present Imperfect_

- x -_  
_

The early sunlight of the spring morning slanted through heavy cedar boughs and threaded its way amongst crowding stands of dense fir and hemlock, delicately reaching down through the drifting mists that cloaked the narrow valley that held the river. During the winter months, the mist resisted any attempts by the weakened sun to pierce the grey depths; but the season had turned again, and the mountains were responding to the change. The last few stubborn patches of snow were retreating to higher altitudes every day, and the thick dark mud that the snowmelt left behind bogged every trail and clung stubbornly to the bootsoles of anyone impatient enough to attempt to intrude upon the forest as it awakened.

The river chattered and roared, swollen with the spring freshet. The jade-green water was cloudy with silt brought down from the heights, as the turning cycle of time pulled one more thin layer of stone from the mountaintops and dragged it down towards the lowlands and the waiting sea. Eventually, it would wear the mountain down – but by that time, another mountain would have grown up, if not here, then somewhere else.

The man who paused at the bend in the trail, knocking his hiking boots free of the latest accumulation of heavy, fertile mud, knew he was close to his goal. He'd been stalking this particular suspect patiently for several days, watching as the target became less nervous and returned to regular habits, growing easier to predict and to follow. This morning, he'd been up since well before dawn, hoping for clear weather and the extra touch of luck that he needed.

Once his boots were more or less free from the dragging weight, he cut away from the path and slipped along the top of the ravine overlooking the river, careful to stay out of the direct line of sight. His feet stepped softly now, the damp moss and fallen needles deadening his steps.

MacGyver lowered himself carefully to a prone position, pulling himself forward as gently as he could across the stone shelf to the vantage point. His right knee complained at the effort, and he set his teeth and tried to pretend that it was just a temporary twinge, not the same recurring pain spike from the old skiing injury. He'd been lying to himself about it for enough years; he ought to be good at it by now. The fingers of sunlight reached through the screen of the cedars and drew sparks of silver from his shaggy hair.

He peered carefully out across the canyon before he fished in his bag for his binoculars. No improvised equipment this time; the high-powered field glasses were a generational leap beyond the pair that Ed Gant had replaced so willingly over twenty years before, and they were, finally, better than the old ones had been.

After such a long pursuit, it could have been anticlimactic when the view through the glasses showed Mac exactly what he'd been hoping to see; but the thrill made his breath catch, and he remained still for several long moments, absorbing every detail. At last, he wriggled back out of sight, stood up again, stashed the field glasses, and reached for his notebook and pen.

A thought struck him before he started to write, and he stuffed the notebook into a pocket and dug into the outer zipped section of his game bag. Yes, the new gadget was there – and a quick check of the display confirmed that he even had a signal strong enough to run a quick field test.

His thumbs flicked over the buttons of the customised Blackberry.

_confirm 2 eggs bald eagle nest in standing dead tree N fork Stillaguamish River both adult birds present add 2 log pls Mac_

He'd only been ten minutes on the way back before he felt the unit vibrate in his pocket: there was an answer.

_(at)macgyver log entry made confirm pancakes rdy on ur return need ETA luv u grampa_

Mac's grin, proud and sheepish, would have burned away any remaining mist. He thumbed a reply to his granddaughter.

_(at)petra 30 minutes don't burn ur fingers luv grampa_

- x -_  
_

MacGyver spotted the lights on the indicator panel by the computer as soon as he got back to the cabin, but he ignored the signal while he focused on breakfast, added details to Petra's log entry, and chased his younger granddaughter, AnnaRose, around the cabin until she was giggling too hard to run, and he was panting with exertion and wondering why he couldn't have had granddaughters when he was still young enough to keep up with them.

Finally, he bowed to the querulous demands of the indicator alert and sat down at the computer. He'd rigged the panel so that different specific lights went on in combination when emails from particular addresses hit his private server; this one didn't require immediate attention, no matter what the sender thought. As far as he was concerned, these days none of them did; although he never put off anything from Sam, or from the girls' mother.

Mac glanced at the email – _Hey, mountain man, aren't you ever going to check in? One of these days? Remember, like you promised?_ He sighed, pinged the sender, and switched on the webcam.

"Well, good morning, campers." He beamed at the screen with a smile he knew would annoy the other party. "So what does the Director of Operations for the Phoenix Foundation want with some washed-up quasi-retired personnel at a lowly research outpost on this fine sunny morning?"

Nikki Carpenter Haines glowered at him – actually, due to the webcam, she glowered at a point in space about a foot to his right, which always amused him so much he'd never adjusted it.

"Sunny? I thought it always rained up there."

"That's just a wild story we tell the tourists to keep them all from movin' out here and spoilin' the place."

"Are you ever going to get a real phone put in?"

"Not if I can help it." MacGyver grinned. "Why should I? I mean, look at what we're doin' right now. I've got a real video phone – how cool is that?"

Nikki tried to hang on to her sense of exasperation as she looked at him, although the sight made it difficult. Mac's smile still made her breath catch, and she had to hide both the thrill and the annoyance it caused. His face had somehow grown craggier over the years without developing all that many extra wrinkles; and the laugh lines had persisted even when there hadn't been much reason for laughter.

There had been that scare about his heart two years earlier, which had blessedly come to nothing; but the strain of the long months of forced inactivity had taken their own toll. This past year, he'd returned with a vengeance to a physically rigourous life, and the added flesh had melted away. He'd stopped letting his hair grow long several years back, although it tended to look unkempt and shaggy at the best of times, and this wasn't the best – the mop was mostly silver-grey now, rapidly heading for white, and it looked as if he'd been cutting it himself with his pocketknife, on random whims, without a mirror.

"It's not at all 'cool' when you miss your regular radio check-in. Eighteen hours of silence past your scheduled time, and then all the poor guy got was a nice breezy, 'All well, same time next week, same bat-channel' – what the hell were you _thinking_, Mac?"

MacGyver shrugged. He picked up a small plasticine figure that was perched on top of the computer monitor and began to turn it idly over in his fingers. "Look, I didn't think anyone would get that stressed out over a late check-in. We had a little trouble with the radio is all – it took some time to fix."

"Trouble with the _radio_? Are you kidding? I'd have thought you could fix a radio in your sleep."

Mac looked sheepish. "Well, the truth is, AnnaRose took the radio apart to see how it worked, and I made her put it back together herself. I figured she'd learn more that way." He peered at the screen; Nikki's face had vanished. "Nikki?"

The dark blur on the webcam resolved itself as Nikki lifted her head back up from her arms and gave Mac a long-suffering look. "MacGyver, can someone please explain to me why anyone thought it would be a good idea to breed more of you? The _radio_? Last I heard, she was just taking apart the toaster."

"She upgraded."

"_Mac_ – " Nikki interrupted herself and peered at the figurine he was fiddling with. "What _is _that, anyway?"

Mac held it up. "AnnaRose made it. It's supposed to be an eagle."

Nikki raised an eyebrow. "I hope she's better at engineering than she is at sculpture."

Mac looked at her severely. "Are you criticising my granddaughter's aesthetic achievements now? I'll have you know this is a fine imitation of, um, early Haida totemic art. From the Tukwila period."

"Right. So how much longer are your evil geniuses going to be up there with you?"

"Spring break's almost over. Their mom's coming out for them tomorrow."

"She's coming out on the chopper herself?"

"Yeah. She likes me to be there when she inspects them for damage."

"And how about you? Any plans to come back to civilisation someday?"

MacGyver set down the figurine, his face firmly neutral. "Nope. No plans. Period."

- x -_  
_

_When I was a kid, it seemed that the Minnesota woods just went on forever . . . more than enough room for anything, and plenty of room for a kid to go with all his childhood anger and frustration and grief, and keep going until the endless peace and silence just soaked it up. At first, it was pretty small stuff, though I didn't think so at the time – a reprimand from my dad, a bad day at school, an experiment that had resulted in another big mess instead of a great discovery._

_Later on, after we lost dad and grandma, I had to go farther out into the woods and stay longer. I always came back, of course . . . my mom needed me, and there was stuff I had to do. _

_After I lost Pete, it felt like there couldn't possibly be a forest big enough and deep enough to make a difference . . . there wasn't enough silence anywhere to soak up what I felt._

_I went anyway._

_I just didn't figure on coming back this time._

The girls were safely occupied in the clearing in front of the cabin, apparently engrossed in their ongoing scientific investigation of the properties of mud. Mac went over to the woodpile and picked up the axe.

The spasm of pain that hit him when he grasped the handle wasn't physical – it was the inadvertent result of months of association. It passed quickly enough as he positioned a section of sawn wood on the chopping block, focused on the simple arc of his swing, brought the axe around and down, severing the wood cleanly. Set, focus, swing, strike. Repeat. A wedge and a splitting maul, a whetstone and an axe. Once he got started, the pain and grief retreated, hovering nearby instead of weighing him down; it was only habit that made the act of picking up the axe feel as if his heart and guts were being ripped out again.

The heart attack had hit Pete on the sixth of June. The funeral had been on the twelfth. By the fifteenth, MacGyver had packed away the nonessentials, made storage arrangements for the bike, and left LA for good. He'd been spending more and more time up at the cabin in recent years anyway, and there hadn't been that much stuff that needed to be brought in by the chopper.

He'd left the Jeep with a friend in Seattle, and made the final trek out to the cabin on foot; it had taken three days, but it had felt right. But the ache of loss had followed him up into the mountains. The day after his arrival, MacGyver had started cutting firewood.

By October, the woodpile had become so large that he'd had to stop and build an extension to the snowshed that kept off the worst of the weather. In November, he'd made arrangements for the entire stock of split firewood to be given away to some of the poorer residents of rural Snohomish and Skagit counties – almost everyone had wood stoves or fireplaces, and fuel oil was staggeringly expensive. He'd started over with fresh logs and an empty woodshed, and repeated the whole donation process again in February.

He knew it was obsessive, of course. No matter how high the woodpile grew, it couldn't wall out the pain of losing Pete. But at least while he worked, he could lose himself in the soothing rhythm of the swinging axe, take visceral comfort in finding a place to put the pain. In the end, each length of firewood would go into the flames, warm a home, cook a meal, push the darkness back. Life went on. Another tree grew, another season swung around. Behind him, he could hear the girls laughing, and he smiled in spite of himself.

"Grampa! Grampa! Look!"

MacGyver looked, and had to set down the axe while he bent over laughing. Both girls were nearly covered with mud, hair slicked down and arms coated. The two pairs of dark eyes, so like his own, gleamed wickedly from faces smeared with black muck.

The girls scattered as Mac approached, and he had to stretch his legs before he collared both and hauled them over to where the river curved around the bend near the cabin. The forest echoed with ear-splitting shrieks as he dropped them into the calm pool near the bank, where he maintained a breakwater to control the vigour of the river's current. The noise was part of the game; they were both tough as nails and impervious to cold, even the glacial chill of the Stillaguamish River in spring. They'd been coming up here with him since they were toddlers, and they started splashing in the river every spring almost before the snowmelt was gone.

Petra bobbed her head back up, shook her hair out of her eyes, and glowered at him. "_Grampa_! No fair! Mom won't be here till tomorrow!"

"Yeah? And what'm I supposed to tell her if I can't find you two 'cause I lost you in a mud puddle?" Mac leaned out over the pool as he stared her down, bracing himself for the next step in the game. Once he was in position, AnnaRose hurled herself from the water and wrapped her arms around his legs, and he let her pull him off balance so he toppled in with a resounding splash. His own yell of anguish when the cold water hit him was drowned in the shouts of laughter.

- x -_  
_

The solar collectors that provided electricity to the cabin had a useful side feature – MacGyver had rigged a drying rack in the dead space under the roof to take advantage of the waste heat produced by the energy conversion. It got a lot of use when the girls were visiting. He basked in the heat of the small loft area, letting the chill of the river bake away before he slipped into dry clothes himself and climbed back down to the main cabin.

"Grampa, you've got mail."

"Anything important?"

Petra looked over her shoulder and grinned. The indicator panel by the server was showing a new constellation, one of his favourites; she didn't need to say anything else. "Do I hafta get off the computer right away?"

"No, you earned your time. You finish up." Beside Petra on the computer table was an hourglass Mac had made for her, half filled with glittering mica dust that sparkled as it slid downwards. Upstairs in his loft bedroom was a larger jar of the dust; both girls could earn extra sand for their hourglasses in any number of ways, or occasionally just by grandparental whim. The hourglasses weren't especially accurate, but the girls loved them. AnnaRose had been known to simply set hers out in the sunlight and watch it.

AnnaRose was hanging over the back of Petra's chair, watching with envy. "Grampa, when can I have a MySpace page?"

"When your mom says you can."

"Why don't you have one? You could have one and let me share it."

"I'm too old."

"Are not!"

Mac picked AnnaRose up and swung her around, then pretended to collapse under her weight. "You see? Waaay too old."

Petra abandoned her web page update and joined the pile. It was some time before Willis' email was answered.

- x -_  
_

The clearing where the helicopter usually landed was a wide meadow a few hundred yards from the cabin, the remnant of an old burn scar from a forest fire a generation ago. Five years before, when MacGyver had first started coming up to the cabin regularly, the clearing had been a tangled thicket of invasive species; Mac had cleared out the Scotch broom and Japanese knotweed and made room for the native plants to recover. The Washington Natural Heritage Program now used it as a starter location for reintroduction of endangered native species. In summer, it was a riotous blaze of wildflowers, and each year the girls listened attentively to a full rundown of which flowers could be picked and which should be counted and watched instead. They never got it wrong.

Mac made his slow way out to the clearing to greet the chopper, his left leg dragging. AnnaRose had decided to express her objections to leaving by wrapping herself around his leg, a small and squirmy ankle weight. She'd been doing this sort of thing for years, and had learned early not to cling to his right leg and risk hurting the bad knee.

Lupe Rodriguez set the helicopter down with her usual precision – she'd endured continual shrinkage in the part of the meadow where she was allowed to set down the chopper, and only complained when the girls tracked mud inside the cockpit. She waved at MacGyver and busied herself with her shutdown procedure as her passenger unstrapped and swung down from the cockpit.

Lisa Malloy had hardly scrambled out of range of the helicopter blades before she was met by a flying Petra. "Mom! Mom! Didja see? Two eggs in the eagle nest! We got pictures this morning! Didja see?"

"Yes, I saw, honey. I read your blog this morning. Did you take the pictures yourself?" She reached the edge of the clearing, hugged MacGyver, and smiled down at her younger daughter, still clinging to Mac's leg. "I see you're out on work release."

Mac regarded AnnaRose, who peered up at them through the stray hair that was hanging into her eyes. "Yeah, we're field-testing a new kind of ankle bracelet. The only problem with this model is that we think it can be bribed. Any convict with access to ice cream usually manages to escape."

"Ice cream?" Petra and AnnaRose chorused.

Lisa wrinkled her nose at him. "Oh, thanks, MacGyver. Undermine my parental authority by establishing a reward for bad behaviour."

"Any time." Mac grinned down at her.

When her marriage to Sam had ended, Lisa Woodman Malloy had considered going back to her maiden name, but Mac was glad she hadn't. They could both be impossibly stubborn people about most things – they'd been stubborn about getting married in the first place, and now they were equally stubborn about making sure the girls came first in every consideration. Sam and Lisa had both agreed that it was better not to make their daughters deal with a change of name – a change of identity – even though they had both joked that it would be simpler if they all just adopted the name 'MacGyver'.

Mac had shaken his head at the idea. "No way, Sam. Give them a break. Besides – "

"What?" Sam had sounded brusque, but they knew each other well enough to know why. They understood each other very well by now.

"You've got me. All you've got left from your mother is her name. Don't let that go."

Sam had simply nodded, and Mac knew it was enough. They both knew what was important.

Lisa lived in Seattle now, where she and Sam had settled during their brief marriage. Not that Sam had really managed to settle down – although he _had _tried. It was still home base for him, as much as anywhere. And Lisa was firmly entrenched; her practice was thriving – Seattle was a hotbed for alternative therapists, but there was still plenty of room for regular clinical psychology. Lisa worked three days a week out of her own office, donated one _pro bono_ day a week to the local Veterans Association, and found time to raise the girls while still managing to sit on the boards of half a dozen non-profit organisations. MacGyver sometimes wondered where she found the energy, but he suspected that she thrived on the knowledge that her lifestyle and career choice infuriated her father.

AnnaRose pouted. "Why can't we stay here, Mom? Grampa says we're helping him . . . pleeease . . . ?"

"Spring break's over. School starts on Monday."

Petra scowled. "School's _boring_."

Mac ruffled her hair. "Yeah, I know. But you gotta go anyway. It's a family tradition."

"Why?"

"My grampa made me go to school whether I liked it or not. Your grampa's gonna make _you_ go. Besides, you have to learn all the new stuff they've found out since I was in school, and come back and teach me."

"You're silly, grampa. And you know everything."

"Nope. There's still – " Mac's face was a study in solemn concentration; his brow wrinkled as he counted on his fingers, then counted on Petra's, then added Lisa's. "There's still twenty-six things I don't know," he finally concluded.

Both girls giggled. "What are they?" Petra demanded.

"I don't know! That's the whole point. You have to find out!"

Mac and Lisa finally detached AnnaRose, and they watched as the girls ran back to the cabin to collect their knapsacks. Lisa wrapped her arms around her father-in-law and gave him an extra hug. "I got an email from Sam last night. I think he copied you on it."

"Yeah." They never discussed the times when Sam's work became dangerous, only shared the relief each time he came home safely. _He can't really help it. Any more'n I ever could._ "And I heard from Willis – he and Jess are gonna be up here in June, and they're bringing Daphne." Willis' marriage had surprised himself almost as much as it had startled his friends. His daughter was a year younger than Petra, and they'd been friends almost since babyhood.

"Is he coming up himself this time?" Lisa beamed in delight. "It's about time. I never thought he'd find someone, you know. But Jess is as geeky and workaholic as he is . . . what kind of father does he make?"

"Kinda nervous. But they're good together."

"I'm not surprised."

"Jess is headed out to DC again – third time since the inauguration. Can you believe it? Willis doesn't know whether to fret or preen."

"I'll bet. After eight years of being _persona non grata _in Washington, someone's finally willing to listen to the environmentalists again."

"We got plenty to say." Mac watched his granddaughters running back from the cabin, and wondered how he could still manage to breathe at times like this, when his heart felt so much larger than his chest. When Sam had first walked into his life, it had taken a long struggle to get used to having so much joy and vulnerability, to being held an emotional hostage to the future. So many delicate strands tying him to the world – in the months since Pete's death, the same strands had held him together and kept him from a complete retreat.

- x -_  
_

Lupe had only been carrying passengers on that trip; she wouldn't be delivering supplies until the following week. MacGyver was surprised, and uneasy, when he heard a helicopter again the next afternoon. He rarely heard much in the way of air traffic out here, and the sound of an unscheduled chopper usually meant some kind of search and rescue operation. Mac looked anxiously at the radio, which had made no demands on his attention, and hurried outside to peer up at the sky.

It only took a few minutes before he reluctantly admitted to what his ears had known immediately. It was the same helicopter, Lupe's chopper, returning far too soon, unexpected and unheralded. Mac's face set into grim lines as he hurried out to the meadow to watch its landing.

He spotted the passenger while the chopper was still descending, but he didn't actually recognise her until she shrugged out of her harness and slid from the cockpit clutching a briefcase, scrambling out almost before Lupe had the helicopter firmly settled onto the ground.

Mac had started forward, but now he stopped and waited for the unannounced visitor to cross the meadow towards him.

"_Nikki_? What the heck is goin' on? Why didn't you let me know you were comin' out here?" He didn't mean to sound so gruff and cranky, but somehow it came out that way. Nikki usually had that effect on him, even after so many years.

For once, she didn't seem interested in sparring or jumping on him for every imagined problem. She had recently succumbed to the creeping years and started wearing glasses, and her eyes behind the lenses were wide and grim.

"Sorry to alarm you, MacGyver, but it was urgent . . . I thought it would be better to come out here myself. I didn't want to risk a call."

"Risk a call? Nikki, my webcam's not that scary even when I forget to shave."

She didn't even rise to the bait. "We've had some inquiries from Interpol. They were hoping we could help them out – I didn't want to buy what they were telling me, but I couldn't ignore it."

"Couldn't ignore what?" Mac was already feeling crankier. Nikki was usually much better at coming to the point; something must have rattled her.

Nikki bit her lip and looked around at nothing in particular before she finally met his gaze. "Mac, it looks like Murdoc has finally resurfaced."

"That's not possible." MacGyver's voice was hard and flat, each word as sharp-edged as a knife blade. He turned away from her and started to walk back to the cabin.

"MacGyver, aren't you listening? You could be in danger! Didn't you hear me? _Murdoc's back_!"

Mac had intended to go on, but instead he found himself turning to face her, towering over her, his shadow crossing her face.

"Murdoc's dead."

- x -_  
_

_Note on the Blackberry Tweets (or would that be 'Macberry'?): the ff dot net interface parses out the 'at' sign. I improvised (using available repurposed characters)._


	2. Subjunctive

**Reverb**

_Two: Subjunctive_

- x -_  
_

_The goddamned idiot. Why does he always do this? How can any man be so self-effacing and so goddamned arrogant at the same time?_

_Pete told me years ago that if I could learn to handle Mac, the rest would be easy. I pounced on him for that – he'd finally admitted that MacGyver was all but impossible to deal with, right? Right? Well, wrong. He wasn't admitting that at all. He just meant that if __**I**__ could learn to deal with Mac – something he found perfectly natural and easy – then I'd have achieved some shiny golden citation, some damned merit badge in personnel management. Or self-discipline. Or cat-herding. Something._

_I'm still working on it._

Nikki watched Mac turn his back again and stride away, and let him cross halfway back to the cabin before she called after him. It took that long to get her temper under control so she could call after him instead of yelling.

"MacGyver, didn't you hear me? I'm telling you it's Murdoc. It _has_ to be Murdoc."

"No."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Mac slowed, half turned, finally stopped and looked over his shoulder. His face wore a shadow of a smirk. "Nikki, I never thought _you'd_ need sensitivity training."

"What?"

"What part of 'no' didn't you understand?"

Nikki gave him a sour look, then turned her back on him, facing the meadow, and raised an arm in a signal. Lupe hadn't yet shut down the helicopter's engines; now the rotor resumed its brisk chopping. She was about to lift off.

"_Hey_." Mac protested.

Nikki barely looked at him. "She's got another job this afternoon – some band of tourists over at Leavenworth want the usual sky tour of the Cascade Mountains. She said she could squeeze in a quick stop here on the way, and she'd give me three minutes to decide whether I was staying or not." She hefted her briefcase and started towards the cabin, glancing over her shoulder. "Oh, come on, MacGyver. You don't have to look as if your mother-in-law dropped in and was staying for a week. Lupe will be back before dark. Or I can always radio Wenatchee for an earlier pick-up, if you simply can't stand having me around for a few hours."

Mac trailed after her, muttering, as she strode off. His mother had been dead for almost fifty years, but swearing still didn't come naturally. Sometimes he wished it did.

- x -_  
_

Inside the cabin, Nikki glanced around with unfeigned interest, and Mac remembered that she'd never been there before. She knew the place only by its designation in the Phoenix budget: research outpost W-407, Ongoing Remote Residential Project in Indefinite Sustainable Living Off-Grid. She'd signed off on the original acquisition of the acreage where the cabin stood, land donated by a hard-core environmentalist who didn't trust the Nature Conservancy to keep it safe from commercial development. She'd watched Pete slip the original building plans past the Board – they'd had a worse concentration of fuddy-duddies than usual that year – and three years later she'd been the one in the hot seat, securing the funds to keep the project going. It hadn't needed a lot. Willis and MacGyver had adopted it as their own almost from the start, and the biggest cost – flying supplies in by chopper – had remained low even with Mac living up there full-time. He simply didn't need much to keep going.

Now she looked around at the reality behind the reports. It looked a lot like MacGyver's other homes: most of the living space was one large room, with a small kitchen area at one end, dishes and cookware easily reached on open shelves. The furniture was comfortable and unpretentious, some of it handcrafted; a fireplace, a few throw rugs, the inevitable couch. A large table at the near end of the main room served as a desk, papers and periodicals scattered around a computer monitor and keyboard, the glow of the computer itself winking from the shadows underneath the table and an odd-looking panel of coloured lights hanging over it. A hockey stick leaned in a corner, and skates hung above it from a nail pounded into the rough wood.

Rows of shelves on the walls were crammed with an unimaginable variety of random objects: books propped up between rocks for bookends, magazines in stacks that threatened to tip over into small landslides, tools and unidentifiable electronic widgets, scattered knickknacks and framed photos. Lumpish clay or plasticine figures dotted the shelves – presumably more of the girls' attempts at sculpture, or possibly voodoo charms intended to frighten away evil spirits. On the mantel stood a line of photos of Sam and Lisa, the girls, Willis and his family, more pictures of Sam, more pictures of the girls.

A few beautifully matted and framed photos hung on the rough log walls: Nikki recognised some of Sam's best work, including the shot of the Three Gorges that had made the cover of National Geographic, and the picture of a desolate Inuit child surveying the ragged springtime edges of the Arctic ice cap up near Prudhoe Bay that had won the Pulitzer back in 2006.

There weren't any photos of Pete. Nikki guessed that they were still packed away – possibly still in storage back in LA, over a thousand miles away and probably not far enough. She wasn't surprised. She'd buried her own pictures of Pete Thornton in a back drawer of her massive desk in the Director's office they once shared, and had only pulled them out again a few weeks ago.

Nikki turned towards Mac, blinking back the sudden hotness in her eyes, wishing she could simply reach out to him. He wasn't even looking at her; he was stooped down, picking up a plastic rainbow of scattered Lego blocks from the floor in front of the couch.

"I don't usually let them bring a lot of toys up here . . . we spend most of our time outdoors anyway." He sounded sheepish.

"Even in the rain?"

Mac chuckled. "Oh, they don't mind gettin' wet. Not since they found out that the wetter they get, the more mud sticks to them. You'd think it'd slide off, but they're real good at keeping it in place."

Nikki drew a deep breath and set her briefcase on the scarred wood surface of the table, and booted up her laptop. She was keenly aware of when Mac's focus shifted from the strewn playthings to her own hands on the keyboard. She'd been mentally rehearsing this conversation since the previous evening, right up through the helicopter ride up into the Cascades, but no amount of rehearsal or advance preparation ever really counted when Mac was involved.

Mac tried not to be intrigued, but he couldn't help watching Nikki run through her logon. Willis still picked his brain regularly to find what new creative approaches they could come up with for computer security, and more of their ideas had been adopted since Nikki's original promotion to Deputy Director. She'd succeeded Pete as Operations Director over five years ago, and immediately overhauled the entire computer system again.

Pete had found plenty to value in the computer revolution – any system that would deliver more information to him, faster, in more detail, and correlate it better, gave him an edge that fed his already extraordinary natural talents. But he'd never really adjusted to the growing vulnerability of those same computer systems. Mac felt his throat begin to tighten up at the memory of Pete glaring impotently at a frozen screen – _man, he hated Windows, we all did _– grabbed the mental thread and snapped it before it could drag him down under the ice.

He focused on Nikki again instead. Whatever she'd brought with her on that laptop, it was taking an extra pass of the fingerprint scanner and an extra set of passwords to access it. And she'd long since mastered the trick of typing the password with one hand while automatically holding the other over the keyboard, obscuring the keystrokes from any observation. He grinned inwardly. He'd taught her that trick himself.

Her voice was as cool and dispassionately brisk as ever as she started to speak. "Just as a formal reminder, Mr. Quasi-Retired Personnel, you're still under contract and you still have your top-level security clearance."

"And I'm still under a pledge of confidentiality, for cryin' out loud, Nikki, it's not like I need a reminder to keep an official secret – "

"Mac, I _know_ that," Nikki snapped. MacGyver was startled; there was an edge to her voice that was different from the one he expected, the edge he was used to. "I wasn't about to remind you. You've _never_ needed reminding." Mac blinked; he wasn't used to hearing Nikki express confidence in him. "I only need to verbally confirm that you've got the clearance for everything I'm about to show you. We got it from some top-level sources, and, well . . . "

"Not all those sources were official?"

"You can say that again. But you'd better not say it at all. When the previous administration dissolved the DXS, most of the personnel were absorbed by Homeland Security, although some of them shifted laterally to the CIA. And a few gave up the government sector in disgust, of course."

"Only a few?"

"Okay, maybe more than a few."

"And I suppose Phoenix wasn't in there, commiserating with old friends and colleagues and cherry-picking the best of the veterans?"

To her surprise, Nikki found herself sharing a smug grin with Mac. "We finally got Craig Bannister. And a few others. High time, too – the Phoenix Ops department needed some fresh blood."

"Man, I thought Craig retired ages ago."

"He was going to. I talked him out of it."

"I'll just bet."

Nikki turned back to the screen. "He was the one who originally spotted the pattern – you remember, he'd worked with Pete back when Pete was first trying to track Murdoc down. Back before you came into the picture." She turned the laptop so MacGyver could read the information on the screen. "It's collated mostly from Interpol – Bannister said nobody stateside would listen to him, so he started chatting up some of his overseas contacts – but it's all been cross-checked and confirmed. We got the most recent intel from a – well, an old acquaintance – in the CIA, yesterday evening. This isn't a pack of rumours, Mac. It's a collection of facts." She drew a deep breath and turned the screen to face him.

"Nine assassinations in the last eighteen months – three civil figures, four political, two criminal. No relationship or connection between the victims whatsoever. Timing in line with a single perpetrator, allowing time for payoff and new assignments to be made between each successful kill." She drew another deep breath. She _had _to convince him.

"It's Murdoc, Mac."

"No way."

Nikki caught at her temper, reined it in as if it were a physical thing. She never expected actual cooperation from MacGyver, but the last thing she'd expected was that her briefing would be given in the face of a wall of such blank, unbending dismissal.

"The MO is pure Murdoc; not only that; it's 'old school' Murdoc. You know Pete was originally put on his case back in 1975 – but he accumulated a file that went all the way back to 1969, by collecting details of older, unsolved murders that fit the profile."

"Yeah, Murdoc musta started real young." Mac's voice dripped with disgust.

"Well, I've been studying the files of the early days. This is the old pattern – a quick, clean kill, no witnesses left alive – usually no witnesses, period. No fancy traps; the entrapment component consists of perfect timing and execution, with the victim caught in a situation with no possibility of escape."

"That's a switch." The reply was a harsh rasp.

"Not really. It was the elaborate traps that were the switch – Murdoc's original reputation wasn't built on idiotic games and risky charades. He didn't start on that until 1980. We're not sure just when it happened, but heapparently became aware that Pete was chasing him, and turned it into a cat-and-mouse game. Pete thought Murdoc must have been, well," Nikki shrugged, "bored."

"_Bored_?"

"Yes. Pete and I used to speculate about it . . . "

Mac heard a hollow note in her voice. Pete had personally groomed her to take over the Director's position from him – they had worked together for years, sharing the same office. She missed him too. His own voice sounded hoarse when he answered. "You did?"

"Well, we could hardly discuss it with you. You weren't reasonable about it."

MacGyver had been sitting at the table, clicking through the details in the files on the laptop. Now he pushed it away from himself as if the keys had stung his fingers, got up and glanced out the window to where the late afternoon sun had begun to slide behind the peaks. He walked over to the hearth, squatted down and started to lay a fire.

_Fine, MacGyver. Turn your back on me. Turn your back on what I'm telling you. That won't make it go away._ The act actually touched Nikki with relief. He'd been sitting too still, for too long – she'd never seen him be inactive for long. Almost never. She continued to talk to his back as if he weren't trying to ignore her.

"Murdoc had gotten too good at what he did – in his own mind, anyway. Simply killing people had become too easy. Baiting Pete was more interesting . . . a little more risky, but he was confident – arrogant. Certain he had the upper hand." She looked steadily at Mac's back – stiff, uncommunicative, listening.

"And then you entered the picture."

There it was: a ripple of tension across the broad shoulders, a moment of stillness. Then Mac visibly shook himself and reached for the stack of kindling beside the fireplace.

"Anything else come out of all your speculating?" he asked gruffly.

"A fair amount. At the time, it was all hypothetical, of course."

"And you're sayin' Pete actually talked all this over with you?"

"Well, he didn't really talk a lot. But he listened." Nikki pulled her laptop back towards her and tapped a fingernail on the screen as if she could down pin the will-o'-the-wisp. "You remember the last official sighting we had of Murdoc, back in '91 – "

"It's not like I'd be able to forget it."

"Well, no, of course not." Her voice was gentle instead of sharp, and Mac glanced over his shoulder at her in some surprise. "But if it was unsatisfying from our point of view, it wasn't a good outcome for Murdoc either. Getting tangled up in South American politics and landing on the bad side of both sides of one of their wars – they aren't exactly known for forgiveness down there. But there's always someone on another side who's got another axe to grind."

Mac's hands had grown still again, and Nikki pressed on. _Finally. He's listening now._

"And it wasn't long afterwards that Sam turned up, and after that you were off on the road with him. Did Pete ever mention that we had some reports later that year?"

Mac turned back to the hearth. "Yeah, he told me. We got one reliable sighting in Columbia – someone fingered him doin' enforcement for the Cali cartel. There were a couple more rumours after that, but nothing solid. The last one was in Ecuador in 1992, and that was unconfirmed." Mac gathered a handful of the dry, shredded bark and dead leaves he used for fire-starter. His fingers were deft as he built a loose cage of kindling around it and arranged the larger wood to catch fire quickly and smoothly: he'd performed the same task so often it came as naturally as breathing. On some occasions, building a fire had been second only to breathing when it came to survival. The task provided no distraction, although he wished it would.

"MacGyver, the new reports started in South America. In Ecuador and Venezuela, to be precise. The activity spread out from there. I don't know where Murdoc's been hiding all this time, or why he stayed quiet for so long – although he's dropped out of sight before, sometimes for years. I think that now that he's active again, he's being more cautious – he's getting himself reestablished, so he's fallen back on his original practices, from before he got so reckless."

"You mean before he got all obsessed about wanting to get me." MacGyver stood up from the hearth abruptly and walked over to the table, planting both hands and leaning over her. "This really has you spooked, doesn't it? You really think it's him." He studied her face intently, his dark eyes unreadable. "Spill it, Nikki. There's something you haven't told me."

He saw her bite her lip and glance at the laptop screen, and his eyes narrowed.

"You've started getting pictures, haven't you? Photos of the moment of the kill?"

"How did you know?"

"Easy guess." He straightened up again, gesturing in disgust, his fingers flickering as if he were trying to shake off some clinging filth. "It was the one unique signature touch that no-one else was crazy or sick enough to get into." His voice was a bitter, sarcastic drawl. His eyes hadn't left Nikki's face.

She nodded. Her hands flickered over the keyboard, releasing the security lock on another file. "Take a look."

MacGyver glanced at the laptop screen, then looked away, biting his lip.

"The first photos appeared last summer – June 2008. The wire services received an email with a set of digital photos attached, showing the victim and the hit – a single shot to the head, close range. They . . . they weren't nice photos. The wire services didn't use the pictures, of course – they couldn't – but word got around."

"Did they send 'em to the authorities?"

"Well, of course. And the same email had already been sent to Interpol and the CIA. The DXS didn't exist any more, so Murdoc couldn't send it to his old buddies; he picked the next best alternative."

Mac spoke very softly. "He couldn't send it to Pete."

"That's right." Nikki studied Mac with concern. "I don't know why he didn't try to send it to you. Although you were never a target for that part of his bragging . . . "

"No, I was a different kinda target for him." MacGyver touched the screen lightly, as if trying to reach out to the assassinated man. "When did you learn all this?"

"Don't you mean, 'Why didn't I tell you about it sooner?' "

"Well, yeah."

"Because I didn't know. Bannister talked to me last fall about the assassinations and the suspicions he had, but he didn't know about the photos – there aren't a lot of people left who remember Murdoc, and nobody else had made the connection. You know how uncooperative the CIA's been for the last several years; I can't even get them to return calls offering golf dates. Craig finally learned about the photos last week, when he asked his Interpol contact in Lyons the right questions. He flew back from Paris and dumped the nightmare in my lap yesterday afternoon."

"Nice of him."

"I told him last year that if he turned up anything concrete, he'd better break the sound barrier getting it to me."

"And then you came racing up here to share the bad news."

Nikki frowned at him. " 'Bad news?' Is that all you can call it? MacGyver, _Murdoc's back!_ You could be in terrible danger! And not just you . . . " She glanced around the cabin, looking at the scattered Lego blocks, the family photos on the mantel. Her eyes were pleading and desperate. "Don't you _get _it?"

"Oh, I get the message, all right. Anyway, I can see the message he's tryin' to send – a really, really loud one. 'Murdoc's back'." Mac set on hand on the laptop lid and pushed it closed, shaking his head. "Except he isn't, Nikki. Murdoc _isn't_ back. I don't know what else might be goin' on, but there's one thing I do know." His voice was soft and even, cool and absolute. "Whoever you're dealing with, it's not Murdoc."

"MacGyver, I can't believe what I'm hearing. After years of listening to you harp on about how Murdoc _isn't_ dead, _can't_ be dead – "

"And it's _been_ years since you heard me, as you put it, 'harp on' about that particular topic."

"Well, yes. And I still can't believe it. After everything you went through . . . I can't believe that you'd _ever_ be able to say that he's dead. Not unless you watched him die yourself, and then buried the body. And maybe not even then."

MacGyver merely looked at her, a steady blank look that made his eyes seem like dark caverns that went on forever. Whatever might be going on inside, there was no light showing at the end of that tunnel. He turned away from her and knelt by the hearth again.

"And . . . and what about his file?" Nikki checked and shook her head. "I can't believe I said that. He didn't have a file, he had a whole damned filing cabinet. Back when we actually _had_ filing cabinets. But you know what I mean. His file was never closed."

Mac struck a match and held the tiny flame to the kindling. The crowding chill of the approaching spring evening would begin to make itself felt soon. He didn't respond, but something in the set of his shoulders – a sudden added stiffness – seemed abruptly eloquent. Nikki studied him thoughtfully.

"Mac . . . ?"

MacGyver sat back on his haunches to watch the small blob of orange light crawl and spread along the dry leaves and shredded bark, and ran a hand through his already wild hair. Finally he half-turned to look at Nikki over his shoulder.

"Pete and I closed the file. Back in '96. We didn't tell anybody is all."

"What?"

"You need me to repeat it?" Mac snapped.

"No! I mean, what . . . I mean, _why_? How?"

"We had our reasons." Mac turned back to the fireplace.

"Well, don't you think it's about time you shared a little?" Nikki got up from the table and walked over to the hearth, standing with her hands on her hips and looking down at him. After a moment, Mac glanced up, expecting to meet her glare, but she wasn't scowling. She was studying him with puzzled concern. She squatted down next to him and laid a hand on his rigid shoulder. "Mac . . . ?"

Her calf muscle spasmed, and she clutched at her leg and sat down heavily on the hearth. "Oh, god _damn_ it . . . my _knee _. . . when did I start getting old? Hell. So much for the dignified concern of an old friend." She straightened her leg out with both hands, glared at it, and then met Mac's eyes with a self-deprecating shrug. "Okay, now that I'm completely embarrassed, how about telling me what the hell you're talking about?"

- x -_  
_


	3. Past Participle

**Reverb**

_Three: Past Participle_

- x -_  
_

__

The road trip with Sam never did officially 'end' . . . it kinda tapered down. The first year or so, we swung through just about every state, most of Canada and Europe and a whole lotta other places, long lazy loops with no need to plan or make any decisions beyond which direction to point the bikes in the morning. Somehow, we always came back to the loft, and after awhile the pauses between legs of the trip started to get longer.

_During one of those breaks, I had to run down to the marina to help a friend out with a piece of salvage – that was when I stumbled across the new houseboat. After that, Sam had the loft to himself – for a while, that is. He needed his own place by then, and I did too._

_So the trip petered out, or maybe it Peted out. It wasn't long before Pete started dangling bait – not that he was trying to lure us off the road; he was just tossing cheese in front of us as we rambled along through the maze. Supply runs to remote scientific outposts, escort duty through some dodgy part of the Third World. As long as you're in the neighbourhood, Mac, maybe you could just drop in and check up on . . . you get the idea. Pete knew me real well, and I knew him too, of course, and I knew just what he was doing. I let it happen. It paid for a lot of the travel, and it made it a lot more interesting. And, well, more fun._

_And then Sam announced, right out of the blue, that he'd not only been accepted at UCLA, he'd lined himself up a whole patchwork of scholarships – with no help from Pete or me, mind you, or anyone else. That was the point. We celebrated with the trip to China – quite a trip, that one was – and after that, we could only hit the road between semesters. I had to do __something__ to keep myself busy – even though you'd think some of my friends make it their business to get into trouble just so I have to come visit and help them out._

_By the time I was back at Phoenix full-time, it was almost like I'd never left. But Sam and I still acted like every chance we had to travel was just another leg of the road trip. Even though we knew – I knew – that sooner or later, we'd run out of legs._

- x -_  
_

There was no sign of Sam when MacGyver pulled the Jeep up in front of the loft they'd once shared. For a moment, he was startled and began to worry: Sam had always been eager for any of their trips, and was usually opening the car door and slinging his dufflebag into the back almost before the Jeep had come to a full stop. Then a broad grin broke over Mac's face as he guessed what the delay must be, and he shut off the engine and swung out of the car.

He still had his own key to the loft, and habit made him enter silently, even though he knew it would be better to make some kind of warning noise. He was relieved to see that Sam was, in fact, fully dressed, with his packed dufflebag ready to go by the door. Presumably, the kiss that was occupying Sam's attention to the exclusion of everything else – the time, the opening door, his father's presence ten feet away – was intended to be a good-bye kiss, although it was obviously the kind that made it almost impossible to go anywhere. Ever. From the look of things, it wouldn't have mattered if Mac had barged in banging a drum.

After a few more moments, MacGyver cleared his throat noisily and coughed.

Lisa Woodman started, trying to draw back, but Sam merely looked over his shoulder and grinned.

"Been waiting long?"

"Naw, not too long." Mac grinned back.

Lisa was blushing furiously, fumbling hastily to pull her blue satin bathrobe more tightly around herself. She started to stammer. "Anyway, um, Sam, I'll stop by every day and get the mail and water the plants, um . . . "

"Plants?" Mac remarked. "You never used to have any. Not since I moved out and they all dried up." He looked around the large room that made up most of the loft's living space. He hadn't actually been inside the loft for several months, and the differences, though subtle, were significant. The general level of clutter was much less than it had ever been before, the colonies of dust bunnies had been banished from the corners, and a dozen potted plants thrived in the bright, airy room. "Nice."

"Um . . . " Lisa was still stammering. Sam put an arm around her and squeezed her shoulders.

Mac shook his head at her. "Whoa – c'mon, Lisa. I'm Sam's dad, not yours. You can't snow me, and you don't have to try. I already know."

Her face turned an even brighter shade of red. "Know what?"

"Ohhh . . . let's see. I know you pretty much moved in four months ago, about the time you started volunteering at the Challengers Club regularly – oh, and Cynthia thinks the work you've been doin' with the kids is really making a difference, specially with the ones with alcohol issues. I'm pretty sure your parents haven't any idea that you switched majors from pre-law to psych, or that you're spending so much time on the wrong side of the tracks. I know you've been paying Sheila Hayashi to pretend like you're still her roommate, even though she only sees you about once a week when you drop in for your mail. It's a good thing she's your friend, y'know, or she'd be blackmailing you outta sheer exasperation." Mac waggled a finger at her. "Oh, and I know your dad had a real yelling match with Sam at Thanksgiving. And you two went to your mom's house for Christmas dinner instead."

"It wasn't a yelling match," Sam said emphatically, each word very clearly stated. "I didn't yell back."

"No kidding? Good for you."

"I mean, I could take what he called me. I got mad at what he said about you, but he didn't bad-mouth Mom, so I managed not to blow up."

Mac had been lounging against the wall, his hands stuffed into his pockets. At Sam's words, his eyes narrowed, although his casual stance didn't change. "Yeah?"

Lisa's colour had gone from fiery red to a cold paleness. "It's true. Sam didn't lose his temper at all. Even when Dad finished off the bit about 'bastard', 'brat', and 'biker', and went on to 'backstabbing bleeding-heart spineless knee-jerk liberal commies'." Her face was set, her eyes steady with the inner strength MacGyver had watched slowly grow over the years. "I told him the alliteration was a nice touch, and he should've stuck with it. Then I thanked my stepmom for the lovely dinner, and Sam and I left." She shrugged. Sam tightened his grip on her.

"Her mom's place is nicer anyway. Not so fancy, and nobody tries to hand you a drink the minute you walk in the door. Or gets defensive when you point out that you're driving." Sam let go with obvious reluctance. "I gotta go, babe . . . "

"I know. I just wish I could come too." She buried her head in his shoulder for a moment before she withdrew.

"Not this time," Mac said. "Sam has to be Pete's eyes. And if you're around, he won't be able to look at anything but you." He stepped forward to pick up Sam's bag, and grinned when he saw them both take their first good look at him. "You see? Both of you oughta be more observant."

"_Dad_! What the hell happened to your hair?"

Mac rolled his eyes theatrically. "Geez, you'd think no-one had ever seen me get a haircut before."

"I'm not talking about the haircut!"

"It's not that much of a haircut anyway," Lisa observed. It wasn't: Mac's hair was somewhat shorter and less shaggy than usual, but that wasn't saying a lot. "It's . . . well, you know. The _colour_."

Mac gave Sam and Lisa a bland, innocent look. "I don't know what you mean."

Sam gave him a look. "You just look kinda weird with dark hair, okay?"

"You mean you like it better watching me turn greyer every time you do something dangerous?"

"Every time _I_ do something dangerous? Geez, Dad, _I'm_ the one who oughta have grey hairs!" Sam reclaimed the dufflebag. "And really, the hair looks great. You'll blend right in. Will it last? You know – rain and sweat and all that?"

"You mean will the dye hold? Yeah, it's supposed to go for several weeks before it even starts to fade. That oughta be plenty of time, 'long as we don't take too many detours."

Sam pulled an exaggerated pout. "Spoilsport. The detours are the most fun."

Mac broke into a broad grin and cuffed Sam. "So. You ready to hit the road again?"

"You bet." Sam was grinning just as happily, as if the trip ahead was another free-spirited ramble, not an undercover mission to one of the most dangerous countries in the Western hemisphere.

- x -_  
_

They were still in a cheerful mood when they reached the Phoenix building, in spite of the ever-worsening city traffic; they'd spent most of the drive testing the Spanish from their recent intensive refresher course.

"_My wise and honoured father, you still sound like a gringo fresh off the boat."_

"_My too-clever son, you sound like a Chinese camel with a head cold."_

"_Can you help my carburetor? It is not happy with the bad weather."_

"Your _what_?"

"My carburetor, Dad. Didn't I say that right? _Estoy embarazado_."

"You're pregnant?"

"Agh! _Tengo vergüenza_."

"You _oughta_ be ashamed."

When MacGyver breezed into the Operations Centre, Pete Thornton looked at him severely; he could recognise the impish mood even when Mac's face was hemmed in by the creeping, intractable shadows of Pete's worsening vision. Pete had been torn over the proposal to include Sam, even though he immediately saw what a useful arrangement it would be. As it was, they had to wait several minutes for the younger man to catch up; he had stopped at Helen's desk on his way in, as usual, and they could hear his cheerful voice teasing her.

"Now hold on a moment, Sam. You call this kind of trip a 'graduation present'?" Helen looked over at MacGyver, where he stood at the doorway of Pete's office, and raised a doubtful eyebrow.

Mac shrugged. "He didn't want to go to Tijuana."

Sam waved an airy hand. "It's no fun going to the beach resorts with Dad. All the girls start chasing him, and rescuing him from the giggling swarms gets old real fast."

"I just can't believe you're graduating already." Helen shook her head. "Of course, you _did _go to college like Sherman went to Atlanta."

Sam ducked his head, reddening, and MacGyver had a sudden mental image of Sam leaving a wide swath of overwhelmed, trampled, badly singed professors in his wake. It wasn't far from the truth. Between the ferocity he'd shown tackling his course load and the double major, his insistence on mixing fine arts and hard science courses, and his tenacity when it came to gaining entrance to advanced courses and seminars regardless of prerequisites, Sam had made his mark even on the vast impersonal megalith of UCLA. He'd breezed through in less than three years, impatient to finish but determined to get the most out of it while he was there.

And Lisa Woodman had been there also – equally determined to make her mark, and make it on her own, without any outside help. She had stubborned her way into a seminar on forensics that wasn't supposed to be open to underclassmen at all. Sam had bulldozed his way into the same seminar. He had already met her, once or twice before, but had never really noticed her – not until the day he'd seen her on tiptoe, leaning up into the face of an opinionated classmate. She'd been holding her own in the argument, and he'd admired that; and then he'd recognised a familiar catchphrase and realised she was quoting his own father at the guy.

Now Sam was leaning over Helen's desk, his face aglow, whispering to her; Mac turned away with a grin and followed Pete into his office.

He sobered when he saw Pete wasn't alone, and quickly crossed to the woman who sat patiently waiting in the comfortable chair beside the desk. Mac wrapped his arms around her as she stood up, ruffling the dark, curly hair that was already heavily streaked with grey. María Súarez Saldana had aged terribly in a few short years, and grief had etched deep lines into her face. Her dark eyes were starred with tears, but she smiled when she looked up at MacGyver, and turned with him to study Sam as he strode into the office.

"This is your son, my friend? I'm so glad to meet him. Who would have thought? I see the resemblance, yes." She held out a hand and Sam clasped it.

"_Encantado _– you're Dad's friend from Peru, right? The archeology professor from the university in Lima?"

"I was, yes." The shadow behind her eyes deepened for a moment.

Mac squeezed her shoulders. "You'll be a teacher again someday. This is just a break. We'll get your credentials recognised."

"A few more years, and I will need to go back to school myself, my friend. Even archeology changes, and it is difficult to keep up when I am not working in my field."

Helen bustled in, carrying an armful of files for Pete's desk and a cup of _maté_ for María. She glanced at Sam and seemed about to speak, then frowned and returned to her desk.

"Dr. Súarez, I want to thank you for coming so far to help us," Pete said once Mac and Sam had settled into their chairs. "Toronto's a long trip."

"Lima is longer. It is the least I can do for you – " She wrapped her hands around the steaming mug and breathed in the scent. "If not for MacGyver, I would not be complaining about the cold winters in Canada. I would have been dead long since. But I will not lie to you, Mr. Thornton. I think your hopes are foolish. How long has it been since your scientist disappeared?"

"Dr. Velasquez was taken from her home in Huancayo on the night of May 12th, 1996, almost three weeks ago."

"And when you speak to the authorities – when they do not avoid your calls – you learn nothing."

"They're not what I'd call consistent. Every time I call, they say they have no information and no leads, but they're making inquiries and they'll get back to me – "

"And they don't," Sam muttered. "They never do."

"She is almost certainly dead," María declared. "You must accept that."

"Oh, we understand that all right," MacGyver retorted. His eyes were smoldering, dark smoky wells of simmering anger. "But we're _not_ accepting it. No way."

Pete's grim face echoed Mac's. "After the last call, I told Comandante Rodriguez that if he couldn't do better than that, I was going to have to come to Peru and make my own inquiries." He raised a hand and gestured around the office. "And here we are. I suppose he might still come up with a response while we're on our way south, but I'm not holding my breath."

María nodded. "This I understand. But do you truly understand what you are facing? Yes, the violence has decreased, Abimael Guzmán is still in prison, the terrorists are in disarray. But my country is still at the mercy of a corrupt regime. People are still disappearing – they are still dying. Why do you think I cannot go home?" Her eyes flicked to Sam.

"She's got a point. MacGyver, I'm still not too comfortable about including Sam in this mission." Pete's face was a study in conflicting emotions.

"Pete, I'm not an idiot. I read the background material. And hell, I'm less vulnerable posing as your assistant than I'd be if I actually went there as a journalist."

"That is much too true," María said anxiously. "You must not let them know what you are doing. The grip of _Sendero Luminoso_ has lessened, but it is not so weak as official reports claim. You will not be going into the back country, I hope? You will stay away from the mountains?"

"Sam'll be staying in Lima," Mac stated. "He'll be documenting what he can, of course – Amnesty International wants anything we can get them on the situation there – but his first duty is to stick by Pete."

"After all, the blind old man has to have someone to help him find the doorknobs." Pete's smirk belied the self-deprecation of his words.

María studied him with surprise. "Pardon me, Señor Thornton – do they even know that you are not really blind? That you can still see, some?"

Pete shrugged elaborately. "Oh, they might not quite grasp the complete situation – especially since I'll be traveling with a personal assistant. Who is going to act as if I'm totally blind and almost helpless. Right, Sam?"

María smiled in spite of herself. "But what of you, MacGyver? Surely you will be there as well?" She looked at his darkened hair and frowned.

"Well, yeah, but not officially. We figure they'll be watchin' Pete and Sam pretty close, but I'll have a lot more freedom of movement. Just in case something turns up that needs checking."

"If you are hoping to 'blend in', it will be difficult. You are much too tall, and your teeth are too good."

Mac shrugged. "I could slouch, I guess."

She shook her head, half laughing. "You never change! Always you think you will find a way!"

"Well, it's worked so far, hasn't it?"

Her face sobered. "Please, my friend. Be careful. If you do succeed in passing as a _mestizo_, your troubles may only deepen. I know you have fought against racism all your life, but have you ever truly faced it yourself? It is no easy thing, to be looked on as an animal." She drew a long breath and took a deep draught from her cup, her hand shaking slightly.

Helen had entered the office while María was speaking, but had remained by the door, quiet and unobtrusive. She glanced over at Sam, raising an eyebrow as if expecting something. MacGyver had risen from his own chair to put an arm around María. She rested her head against his shoulder and sighed.

"I only wish I could go home, or do something to try to help my people."

"María, you're doing terrific work with the Peruvian refugees in Canada. Don't sell yourself short."

"It is not enough! It is not what we wanted, Enrique and I. We both worked for _Cambio_ in 1990, after my father was killed – we truly believed that a new president would change things. Instead . . . Enrique should have stayed in the mountains, fighting for freedom. I should have stayed up there with him."

"If you had, odds are good that you'd both be dead," Pete said. He sounded brusque.

"We are more than halfway there anyway," María's voice had fallen to a whisper. "Enrique and I had only been married a few months when the soldiers came for him."

" 'Shot while resisting arrest'." The angry sarcasm in Mac's voice could have peeled bark.

"That time, it was no more than the truth. Enrique feared to face torture. He did not think he was strong enough. So he fought them. He made them kill him." She shuddered. "We knew it might happen . . . Enrique told me it would be so, and I agreed. I tried to do the same, but I was not strong enough. I lost consciousness."

"Wait, they arrested you too?" Sam broke in. "Why?"

"Enrique had 'known terrorist associations'. He _had _been a guerrilla, my friend. He was never s_enderista_, but that did not matter to them."

"They wanted information?"

"They wanted to say, 'Look, we have arrested this many terrorists this month.' " She shrugged. "It could have been worse. They did not know I was already pregnant. My son is Enrique's son, and I have never had to doubt that."

Sam flinched at the statement, so simply declared. Pete looked sick. He glanced at Mac, remembering how sketchy the report of that particular trip had been, when Mac had gone to Peru again to get María out of prison and bring her back.

Jocelyn, one of Helen's operations assistants, had appeared in the doorway behind her, murmuring into her ear. Helen nodded and caught María's eye.

"Dr. Súarez, we've got through to Señora Cordova; she's holding on the line for you."

"Ah, thank you!" María turned to Pete. "As I said, I will help in any way I can. Some of my contacts are under surveillance, of course, but no-one can be looking or listening everywhere at once."

Pete smiled ruefully. "No, they can't. We still have a few contacts in the country, even now – and I'll be deeply grateful for any help you can stir up on our behalf."

He leaned over his desk to shake her hand as she rose from her seat, embraced MacGyver again, and followed Jocelyn out into the Ops centre.

Helen was looking meaningfully at Sam again. She cleared her throat theatrically. "Once you're done here, Sam, Willis is waiting for you. I believe he has some new equipment for you to take with you. More fancy cameras, I suppose?"

Sam's face regained some of its natural brightness. "Hey, cool. Dad, you gotta come see . . . " His voice trailed off under Helen's unrelenting gaze.

Pete was looking from Sam to Helen and back. Neither of them could have been much more than a blur, but he'd been working with Helen for over fifteen years, and knew her well enough that he often didn't need to see her at all to know she had something important for him. "Helen? What's up? Is something wrong?"

"For heaven's sake, Sam. You haven't told them yet?" Helen raised an eyebrow. "If you don't, I will."

Sam ducked his head, his ears growing noticeably redder as he studied his feet. Mac half expected him to start drawing a line with his toe in the office carpet. For all his veneer of maturity, Sam didn't have a lot of experience holding his own against formidable older females.

"Um, yeah, of course I was gonna tell them . . . "

Pete threw up his hands. "Tell us _what_?"

Sam looked up, not at Pete but at his father. His grin was sheepish but radiant. "Um, well, the thing is . . . I asked Lisa to marry me. Last night. I – well, I was gonna wait till I got back, but I _couldn't_."

Mac's eyebrows climbed halfway to the ceiling.

Pete's face glowed with delight. "Did she say yes? She must have. Sam, that's terrific!" Just as suddenly, his face fell in a frown. "But wait a minute . . . "

Sam stood up, his eyes sparking. "Oh, for God's sake, Pete, don't you do this to me. Don't start talking again about how I don't know what I'm getting into. This doesn't change anything."

" 'Doesn't change anything?' – of _course _it does! The danger – "

"I'm not the one with the dangerous job here! Dad's the one who's gonna be taking the real risks. You're not about to leave _him_ behind, right? Well, I'm not about to let you go off without me." Sam crossed his arms, looking mulish. Mac had been staring, still looking astonished; now he started to speak, but found himself cut off in the crossfire.

Pete was drumming his fingers anxiously on his desk. "Sam, did your father _really _spell out how dangerous this could be? You know I had to pull all the Phoenix and associated personnel out of the country five years ago. We just couldn't justify the risk any more – not after Shining Path decided that aid workers were legitimate targets for execution!" His mouth had become pinched; Mac remembered how badly that turn of events had hit him. Phoenix had lost two staffers and a volunteer that summer in a particularly gruesome incident in Cuzco. "Dr. Velasquez' project is the first one we've approved since 1991, and look what's happened."

"Dad didn't need to spell it out – "

"But I did anyway," Mac interrupted. "We _are_ talking about a country where they chew up stray journalists and spit them out in pieces. Like María said, Shining Path's supposed to be on the run, but they don't have to run far to drop out of sight, and they're even more dangerous when you can't see them. There's the drug traffickers, and the Peruvian Army, and the difficulty tellin' them apart. There's the government, which is mostly corrupt all the way up to the President, who suspended the Constitution years ago and still hasn't given it back." Mac glanced at Sam. "Did I leave anything out?"

"Nope, I think you about covered it. 'Cept one other thing." Sam leaned over the desk, placing himself directly in the centre of Pete's field of vision, where his face could be seen clearly. "Pete, you're really not in a position to tell _anyone_ that Peru is just too dangerous. I know you're saying that because you care and you worry, but you're not a hypocrite."

Pete studied the young man's face, the determination clear even through the grey fog that had blocked out most of the world. He didn't need to look at Mac; he knew MacGyver had long since given up trying to keep Sam away from danger.

"And – and Lisa understands. You think she doesn't know what kind of person she's getting? This is _important_."

Pete shook his head ruefully. "You two. I should feel lucky to have you both. Just remember to keep an eye on each other's backsides as well as mine, all right?"

"Don't we always?" Mac grinned.

"No, you do not. Now get out of here before I have second thoughts again."

- x -_  
_

Pete was still shaking his head as MacGyver and Sam left the Operations centre and headed down to Willis' realm in the heart of Phoenix' technical research labs. Sam was chewing his lip as they waited for the elevator. "Um, Dad – "

"Yeah?"

"Do you think it's a mistake?"

"Marryin' Lisa? Or goin' to Peru?"

A few years ago, Sam would have rolled his eyes melodramatically. Instead, he simply gave his father a meaningful look. "You know. The whole marriage thing. I mean, you never even tried it yourself." He wondered, briefly, if the remark was going too far, but MacGyver only shrugged.

"If it's a mistake, it's _your _mistake, not mine. All I can say is that it's different from what I ended up doing." The elevator doors opened for them. As they stepped inside, Mac added, "And doin' things differently from me could be a real good idea."

Sam looked at his father in surprise. There had been a slight wistful tone in Mac's voice. "I don't even know what being married is supposed to look like," he blurted out. "And Lisa only knows what it shouldn't be like."

"So you got some real good bad examples. That's a start, anyway."

"Yeah, I guess." Sam was grinning again in spite of himself.

"You thinkin' about having kids?" MacGyver couldn't keep the ridiculous note of hope out of his voice.

"Lisa's set on it." Sam looked sheepish and radiantly happy at the same time. "I kinda thought we should wait a bit, but . . . " He shrugged.

"Yeah? Well, promise you won't name any of them 'Angus', okay?"

Sam grinned. "Cross my heart. We're gonna name the first one after Pete."

"No kidding?" Mac suddenly frowned. "What if it's a girl?"

Sam looked startled, as if he'd never thought of the possibility. "A girl? Wow. I hadn't . . . Dad, it's hard enough thinking about kids at all. Girls? I don't know anything about raising girls!"

Mac slung an arm over his son's shoulder. "Don't worry so much. You can always figure it out as you go. You're good at that." He grinned slyly. "You know the real danger with you and Lisa having kids, though?"

"What?" Sam looked genuinely worried.

"They'll be so darned smart, they'll probably be picking the latches of their cribs with their teeth, as soon as they grow any."

- x -_  
_


	4. Elliptical Phrase

**Reverb**

_Four: Elliptical Phrase_

- x -_  
_

_It took Sam a while to really warm up to Pete . . . at first, he mostly just saw the suit, and the big desk and the neckties and everything. And how could I blame him? He'd grown up mostly in a kind of legal limbo, and he felt safer staying clear of guys in suits._

_And Pete could be a lot sneakier than most folks ever realised . . . he could disappear sideways into the bureaucratic front, and by the time you figured out he wasn't just another suit, he had you. He blindsided people. His own blindness didn't slow him down for long; once he stopped underestimating himself, he went right back to setting folks up to underestimate __him__, and they went right on doing it even worse than before._

_Sam underestimated him for a while, of course, but Sam's real quick on the uptake. Pete sized Sam up a lot quicker._

_It was almost two years before I got Pete to admit how, in the first few days after Sam turned up, while I was looking through old photo albums and trying to get a grip on the situation – speaking of blindsiding, old memories can be real brutal when they ambush you like that – he was calling in markers and running every background check on Sam that he could line up. And that was a __lot__ of markers. He insisted that he'd never really doubted that Sam was legit – but Pete was funny about trusting his gut. He preferred solid information._

_It wasn't till they'd got well past the early stage of being way too polite to each other that I realised just how important it was to me that they'd get along. And not just get along to keep things smooth around me. I needed Sam to know how much Pete meant._

_Of course, Sam never saw Pete wearing that danged hairpiece. That might've really put him off._

Pete Thornton had never been to Peru before, although he sometimes felt he'd been everywhere else on the planet. He couldn't help wondering how the country might have looked if he'd visited it before the glaucoma squeezed the world down into a dimly lit tube with a pinhole view at the end. Instead, he had to make do with the sounds and smells of Lima, which were far too much like many other cities: smog and dirt, car exhaust, and the twin subtle stinks of bureaucracy and corruption.

Julio Pacheco was, in turn, far too much like all the other government officials Pete had spoken with so far. The offices varied in size and stateliness, the carpets varied in depth and shabbiness, the desks varied in width and glossiness. The stonewalling never varied at all.

"Señor, you must understand me! Truly, we are doing all we can, but what you ask is not possible! We cannot keep track of every person in our country – why should we? We are no longer at war!"

"You're a lot more confident about that than I am."

"Señor Thornton, surely you do not think – "

"What am I supposed to think?"

Pacheco heaved a deep, long-suffering sigh. "Señor, of course I understand your concerns. But can you understand mine? I do not understand why the world still regards us with such suspicion! We broke the will of the terrorists _years _ago – they have run back to their mountains, like the dogs they always were."

"Dr. Velasquez didn't disappear 'years ago'. She's been missing for three weeks. Although with every day your government delays, she's been missing a day longer."

"And are you truly certain that her disappearance is . . . shall we say, mysterious? Women . . . let us be frank, Señor. We are both men of the world. Señora Velasquez – "

"_Doctor_ Velasquez – "

"Sí, sí, of course._ Doctor_ Velasquez. You are certain that she did not – let us say, that she did not have a gentleman friend? Is it not possible that she simply left her home to be with him? Women are like that, señor! Surely you accept this!"

"_Accept_ it?" Pete snapped. "I'm not _accepting_ anything of the kind!" He reached for his cane, rose from his chair, turned his head as if he wasn't sure where Sam was sitting, although he knew precisely enough that he could have tapped Sam's ear with the extended white cane. "Sam? Come on. I think it's time we left Señor Pacheco to – whatever he spends his time doing."

Pacheco's flustered excuses and empty reassurances followed after them as Sam hurried to take Pete's arm and guide him across the opulent office, through the door that led into the corridor and ultimately to the slender freedom of the street. Mindful of the sharp ears of their driver, neither spoke until they had reached their hotel suite and Sam had begun checking the carefully planted tells to see if another search had been made of the rooms in their absence.

"All clear," Sam reported after a few minutes. "Did I do any better that time? During your meeting, I mean?"

Pete didn't actually crack a smile, but the softened lines around his mouth told a loud enough tale. "You did great, Sam. I almost forgot you were there myself. Pacheco probably thought you were part of the wallpaper."

Sam grinned. He had lost track of how many government officials they'd run through so far; they had yet to make any progress at all in their mission, but at least he was getting a lot smoother at playing Pete's assistant.

"I _used_ to be pretty good at disappearing, 'cept I never even thought about it. Then you and Dad had to point it out, damn you. That really messed me up for a while."

"It isn't good enough to be able to do it by instinct. You have to be able to turn invisible deliberately. Your father's one of the best at it, you know."

"Yeah, I know."_ A good trick for a journalist. An even better one for a spy._ "Pete, how much longer before he turns up? I thought he'd've made contact by now."

"He knows where we are – and if he doesn't we're easy enough to find. We couldn't be much more conspicuous if we hung neon signs around our necks and walked through the Plaza de Armas playing trumpets and asking the army if they've 'disappeared' anyone lately."

"Don't tempt me. We might get more that way than we have so far."

Pete's smile was gentle, paternal. "You've never been on this end of the business before, have you? Waiting . . . he'll settle in and get himself established, and once he's invisible, he'll contact us."

"Invisibility again? C'mon."

"Well, not exactly. This is your father we're talking about, after all. He can't really be invisible, or even inconspicuous, any more than he can fly." _Less_. "But he can make people willing to cover for him. He'll find some way to help them, and they'll pretend he isn't there, that he doesn't even exist. You've seen it yourself, Sam."

"Yeah."

"In any country, the ordinary people who live there are the ones who know how to keep their heads down. Get 'em on your side, and you've got it made. It's even better than invisibility."

- x -_  
_

At that moment, Mac wasn't feeling invisible. He felt hot and sweaty, dusty and exasperated, and was hoping Dominica Ortiz would return quickly and reclaim her children so he could finish up his current project without another round of delays. It wasn't that the kids were annoying; if anything, they were just too much of a distraction.

María had been right; his height was a big problem when it came to blending in amongst the shantytown residents of Villa El Salvador. But the cover story she'd helped him put together was holding up beautifully, and – as usual – there was no end of stuff needing repairs in the poorer sections of Lima. If he couldn't exactly blend in, at least he could fit in and find a welcome.

He was currently working on a particularly tough challenge – a prehistoric pickup truck with an engine that apparently hadn't had any maintenance done since the Spanish conquest. As he wrestled with the sulking vehicle, Alberto Ortiz, Dominica's only surviving boy, peppered him with questions, and his youngest sister Concepción tried to climb Mac's legs again. She couldn't possibly remember the forest – the family were internal refugees from the insurgency, displaced from the uplands only a few years ago – but the tiny girl was fascinated by his height and seemed determined to treat him as an ambulatory tree, one that didn't have stinging insects lurking on it.

It might have been easier if Alberto had been asking questions about the truck, but he mostly wanted to know about the US. "If you grew up in California, did you know any movie stars?"

"Are you kidding?" Mac bent down to swap wrenches, and Concepción seized the opportunity to climb a bit higher.

"What does Coca-Cola taste like?"

_Disgusting_, Mac wanted to say. "A lot like InkaCola, but more sweet."

"Did you play baseball?"

"Sometimes."

"If you are _americano_, why are you here?"

"I _thought_ I was," Mac grumbled. "Right up until I landed in jail, and they told me I wasn't."

"Why did they put you in jail?"

"Hey, I don't really want to talk about it. Turns out my mom lied. She told me I was, but there was no proof. My papers were fake. And here I am."

"Your _mamacita_ lied to you?"

Mac raised his head from the depths of the engine and glowered at the boy. "Don't you call her a liar. She's dead now, and that's – " His already strained Spanish vocabulary failed him. "Mean," he concluded in English.

Alberto dropped his head. "I'm sorry, señor. I didn't mean it."

"_No problema_." Mac stood up to stretch his back, removed Concepción from his knee level and set her on his shoulders. She crowed with triumphant delight and grabbed a double fistful of his hair. He yelped.

Alberto was leaning against the rusted-out front fender of the truck, trying to look casual and worldly, with no success. "Do you think my mama is pretty?"

"Huh?" Mac didn't have to pretend his confusion.

"If you think she's pretty, you could marry her, and then you could stay here and the priest would not scold and complain."

"Hey, 'Berto, slow down . . . "

"And you could teach me things. You could teach me to fight, like in the American comic books! Bam! Pow!" Alberto boxed an imaginary enemy. "Then I could fight the soldiers, like you did, and keep Isabella safe when she goes to school."

"Whoa, Alberto. Punching that soldier was just plain stupid. If your mom hadn't helped me out when his buddies chased me, I'd've been in real trouble, and I'm tired of being in trouble."

"But it worked! The soldiers left Isabella alone and chased you instead! That was very brave of you!"

MacGyver gave up. The boy's hero worship was unshakeable, and he needed to get the beat-up old truck running, preferably that year. He was making good progress here, but he hadn't been able to connect with Pete and Sam yet, and he didn't know if they'd learned anything that would help clear his path – or at least help him spot potential pitfalls ahead. And he was more hesitant than usual about contacting Pete – he didn't feel the usual cocky confidence about being able to slip in and out of a meet without raising a ripple of notice. He tried to reassure himself that it wasn't Sam's presence throwing him off, making him second-guess himself. Thanks to Pete and his advance planning, there was a fallback plan; but that was a long way short of inconspicuous too.

_The Party has a thousand eyes and a thousand ears._

Or it used to, and Mac wasn't sure how much might be left of an underground intelligence network that had once seemed as all-seeing and swift as the rumour mill from Hell. On his last trip to Peru, too many people had known, too easily, who he was and what he was doing. He'd made it out alive with María, but it had felt like he'd only succeeded because Shining Path didn't have a good enough reason to stop him.

And now . . . according to the official reports, Shining Path was yesterday's problem: Guzmán, the architect of the terror, had been captured in 1992, and the revolution had crumbled after a couple of years of trying to live without its head. Guzmán, 'Chairman Gonzalo', was in prison for life – at least they'd had the sense not to make him a martyr through execution – the country was rebuilding itself, the displaced refugees were beginning to return to whatever was left of their villages after years of bombings and burnings, massacres and disappearances. If he could just get this danged truck running, it would be loaded up with shabby, precious household goods, and another contingent would be off at the first opportunity, fleeing the stinking slums of Lima for the cleaner air of the mountains.

MacGyver wished he could go with them. Villa El Salvador made his skin crawl, and it wasn't just the foul air and the dusty humidity. Mac lifted a protesting Concepción from his shoulders and zoomed her around for a few minutes of imagined flight before he set her down, hugged her fiercely, and reluctantly let go to turn his attention back to the stubborn truck.

- x -_  
_

Sam sensed, for the third time in the last half-hour, that Pete's attention was wandering. He looked up from the grant proposal he'd been reading out loud – they hadn't been able to bring any of the special equipment that would have allowed Pete to keep up with his own paperwork, but Pete wasn't about to let that slow him down.

"You know, most people would find invasive insect species eradication boring from the get-go, but I don't think that's the problem right now."

Pete started guiltily. "I'm sorry, Sam. I – really, I'm very grateful that you're willing to take the time to do this – let's go back to the beginning of the section on the Asian long-horned beetle."

"Let's not." Sam set down the file, swung his legs to the floor, paced to the window. The inevitable morning fog hadn't yet burned away. He might not be able to actually see the peaks of the Andes through the smog and haze of wintertime Lima, but at least he could pretend that the mountains might shimmer into view at any moment. He wished he could ask Pete what was wrong, but they both knew.

Instead, he stated simply, "It's been five days."

Pete heaved a long sigh. "You're right, Sam. Go make arrangements for the car."

"We don't have an appointment with anyone today. What do I say if they ask why we want it?"

A mischievous smile ghosted across Pete's face. "I keep forgetting – you're still pretty new at this. Don't tell them anything. Shrug and blame it on the tiresome, unfathomable old man. You can even try to wheedle some sympathy out of them for putting up with me."

Sam was opening his mouth for an indignant protest when he saw the twinkle. His mouth snapped shut. After a moment, he nodded. "Yeah. That'll work."

He was halfway to the door when the phone rang, the shrill half-jangle of the front desk. He glanced back at Pete. "You didn't tell me you signed up for the telepathic hotel service."

Pete was reaching for the phone, his fingers locating the source of the sound so smoothly that a casual observer might never have suspected the blindness. "Thornton."

"Señor Thornton? You have a visitor."

"Yes?"

"He says his name is also Thornton."

The wave of joy that broke across Pete's face was bright enough to burn away the residual fog. "Send him up!"

Michael Thornton was thinner than before, and he still walked with a limp. But there was a new firmness to his eyes and jaw that even Pete could see. The change made his heart catch. It certainly hadn't been there when Michael had been released from prison the year before, his sentence shortened for good behaviour and the testimony that had taken down the other members of the ring, only to face an future sterilised of opportunity. Not even his father's influence could overcome a felony conviction for selling government secrets. The best Pete could do for him was help him find contract work overseas, in a country desperate enough for foreign expertise that it would give a second chance to an ex-convict.

Pete swallowed hard as the hotel door swung open. _You're really not in a position to tell __anyone__ that Peru is just too dangerous._ Michael had known the future would be rough, but still . . . he'd been trying to reach his son since before they'd left LA, with no word back till now.

Then Michael was inside, wrapping his arms around his father, pounding him on the back. "Dad! Dad? You okay? I'm so sorry, I didn't even know you were in the country, not till last night – I was way off up-country and they just stuck the messages in my inbox, damn them . . . what the hell are you doing in Peru?" Michael took a moment to look around the room. "Sam! You're here too? Where's MacGyver?"

He looked back at his father and frowned at the expression. "He _is _here, right? You wouldn't be doing this without him. Whatever you're doing. I know you wouldn't. Why _are_ you here, anyway?" A fresh shadow crossed his eyes. "Mom's okay, isn't she? It's not that?"

A brief hesitation flitted across Pete's face. Michael flushed. _He doesn't trust me. He still can't trust me. It's never going to change._ His face burned even hotter under the high-altitude sunburn.

Pete tilted his head towards the suite's sitting nook, with its overstuffed chairs surrounded by stacked files and reports.

"Your mother's fine, Michael. But you'd better sit down. There's a lot to tell you. Yes, MacGyver is here in Peru, but he's not with us. Sam and I came here officially; Mac . . . well, we're still waiting for him to make contact. He should have arrived at least five days ago."

Michael tried to meet his father's eyes, to let him see the gratitude that washed through him at being trusted. He remembered, with a shock, that Pete couldn't see his face clearly enough, and rage at the unfair world threatened to swamp the gratitude.

Pete reached out to Michael and placed hand on his shoulder, unerringly in the dark. The firm grasp said everything that needed to be said.

"I'm sorry about the hesitation, Michael. I've been dealing with governmental bureaucrats since we landed at the airport here in Lima. Earlier today, I hedged my answer when Sam asked me if I wanted another cup of coffee."

Michael let Pete guide him to a chair, only half aware that it should have been the other way around. He'd been in prison when the glaucoma had ambushed his father; in the course of a scant handful of Pete's prison visits, he'd gone from the hawk-eyed old spymaster who never missed a detail to a hesitating shadow with dark glasses and a white cane. Pete's slow return to confidence had followed, but Michael's slender faith in the world, never very solid, had recovered much more slowly.

Pete settled himself, then leaned forward, clasping his hands together. "How's it going? Really? God, it's good to see you. It's just not the same only having the phone calls. And I'm always wondering if we're being tapped."

"Um . . . good, actually. Really good. I – I didn't think I'd really get into the work, but once I got over the altitude sickness, I found out I liked it."

Pete beamed. "Yeah?"

"In fact, I love it. There's something that's just so crazy about trying to make things work around here – even a small success feels like you've really done something, really made a difference." Michael had emerged from prison with a newly-minted advanced degree in electrical engineering, and a newly fierce determination to prove he deserved the forgiveness his father had already given him. "Sometimes it's pretty crazy, when you feel like you're hanging onto a cliff by your eyebrows, and then your Jeep reaches the top and somehow or other some pack of demented engineers managed to put up a pylon there."

Sam spoke for the first time in some minutes. "And another pack of psychos has climbed all the way up there and blown up the same pylon. Don't you ever worry that they'll go after you?" His voice was harsh.

"Sam – " Pete tried to intervene.

Michael only shrugged. "I suppose they might. But hey, I could've stayed in LA and gotten beaten to death by a mugger. It sure beats flipping burgers."

Sam blew out his breath. "Crap. I'm sorry, Mike. I'm . . . kind of on edge is all." He glanced at Pete, sensed agreement, continued. "We haven't heard from Dad since we got here. Pete, we were going to . . . "

"Yes, I know. We will." He turned to Michael, his face serious. "And you could help us out, Michael, if you're willing to. I don't suppose you'd be up for a little cloak and dagger stuff?"

Michael tried not to look as if he'd just been offered tickets to first-row centre court seats at a championship basketball game. He didn't succeed. "What do you need me to do?" _Need. Dad needs me!_

"You've got your own car here, right?"

"Yeah . . . "

"Good. Your driver can enjoy a nice long siesta in the hotel lobby. You're going to take the Operations Director of the Phoenix Foundation on a field trip. Congratulations."

- x -_  
_

_I've always had one big problem with being undercover. It isn't the deception – although I'm not too crazy about that, not when most of the folks you meet are decent people at heart – or the danger, or the tightrope walk feeling when something unexpected happens (it __always__ does) and you have to improvise. I kinda like that part, actually._

_No, the big problem I have – other than the habit of getting way too involved – is that, for some reason, I have an awful time remembering to answer to any name but my own._

_Maybe it's because I went through some pretty spiky years in my teens, refusing to answer to my first name, or to anything but the nickname I wanted. Even my mom gave up after she saw how much it meant to me – although I __would__ actually answer when she used it. But I sometimes think the stubborn deafness that comes back to haunt me started there._

_Unless I've got no choice at all, I stick with the name I know._

In Spain, the Philippines, Mexico and Central America, the name tended to get turned into 'Maco' – but in Peru, it picked up the clipped terminal consonant of a Quechua word. Even the small children could pronounce it, although Concepción obviously thought it was a funny name for a person. But it was recognisably his own.

"Maq'! Maq'! Señor Apodaca is here for his truck!" Alberto dashed in from the street, panting.

" 'Bout time," Dominica Ortiz grumbled. She had delayed her marketing, insisting on being present for the negotiations over the now-finished truck repairs. Mac agreed privately. Usually, he enjoyed the more relaxed attitude about time that prevailed outside the borders of the States; but right now he was crowding up against a deadline he couldn't admit to anyone.

The announcement was hardly needed; Hector Apodaca was one of those people you could always hear coming. He was an ideal contact and source for local information: affable, garrulous, apparently friends with everybody, and too good-natured for his breezy tactlessness to offend. Mac wondered how he ever managed to cram his oversized geniality into the cab of his truck, or how he'd managed to sustain that cheerful certainty of good will through the years of terror and violence. Perhaps it had built up from appreciating the daily miracle of not being dead.

"So. You have brought my fine roaring pack mule back from the grave, eh?" Apodaca ran a hand along the dinged and rusted hood as if he was patting a beloved racehorse. "I brought you a dead thing, and now you give me back my life. My children's lives! Now you will tell me how much money you want for fixing her, and I will weep and insist that I cannot pay so much, and I cannot charge my customers enough to pay you and still feed my poor starving family, and we will weep and curse and insult each other, and call each other crooks, and then we will agree and shake hands and swear brotherhood and have a drink."

"Wow. That's pretty efficient." Mac blinked, and Apodaca grinned. "How about we just skip to the end? Not the drinking, the agreeing part."

Apodaca scowled melodramatically. "And what should I do to amuse myself for the rest of the day?"

"Um, get some work done?"

The big man roared with laughter. He had scooped up Concepción and slipped her a sweet as he avalanched into the shed where Mac had been doing the repairs, and now he swung her up in his arms and tickled her with his moustache. She squealed and grabbed at it with sticky fingers; he fended her off with practiced ease and set her on top of the truck cab, where she surveyed the world with round dark eyes.

"Tell ya what." Mac looped his thumbs into the pockets of his tattered jeans. "I'll lower my price – which is already so low that I wouldn't be able to feed my own starving family if I even had one – if you'll do me a couple favours. First, when Mama Ortiz here is ready to take her family back to Junín, you take her right away. No making her wait. And you don't overcharge her, either."

Apodaca threw up his hands. "Since we have already sworn brotherhood, of course. We are family."

Mac looked at Dominica Ortiz and raised an eyebrow. "Will he follow through if I'm not here to remind him?"

Apodaca beamed. "Mama Ortiz will _never_ let me forget!" He leered at her and waggled his eyebrows; she laughed and flapped her hands at him as if shooing away a chicken. "Even if she waits until Isabella is all grown up and accepted at the college, she will remind me."

Concepción had started to wander away; Mac fielded her before she reached the edge of the cab roof and slung her onto his shoulder. "That's one."

"One? There is more?"

"Yeah, but I'm pretty sure you can afford it. I don't need money as much as I need help."

Apodaca drummed thoughtful fingers on the truck. "A man who can fix things such as you can, Señor Maq, can make money and hire help."

"That kind of help is only worth what you pay for it. I need advice, and information. And I need to get to Huancayo."

"Huancayo?" The first truly serious expression crossed the man's face.

"Yeah. Can you help me?"

Apodaca spread his arms wide, palms extended. "Why has God placed us on this earth if not to help each other?"

"Glad to hear it. How long will it take?"

"I must speak to a few people. I will come back this evening, or perhaps tomorrow. You will be here?"

"Sí. Oh, and one other thing."

"_Another_ thing? What is it now, señor?"

"Try to remember to put oil in the truck once in a while, okay?"

- x -_  
_


	5. Transitive

**Reverb**

_Five: Transitive_

- x -_  
_

Michael was quiet for some time as Sam drove south from the hotel in the Miraflores district, only speaking up as they approached the shantytown of Villa El Salvador, where the buildings devolved into makeshift shelters and shacks, and the streets disintegrated into a chaotic tangle of potholes and dirt.

"Sam, you did say you've been here five days, right?"

Sam didn't look at him; all his attention was focused on the rapidly worsening road surface. "Yeah."

"How the hell do you know your way around so well?"

"Somebody had to."

From the back seat where he was riding, Pete chuckled. "Sam's a quick study. He's got an extraordinary visual memory."

"Motivation helps too," Sam added. "Pete, didn't Señora Cordova say the big open-air markets are along Pastor Sevilla Avenue?"

"Assuming they haven't moved."

"They better not have," Sam grumbled. "Looks like we're getting close. Okay, here goes."

Even knowing what to expect, Michael was caught off guard when Sam began to pop the accelerator and the car's already bumpy progress became a series of jerks and jolts, made worse as Sam let his grip on the wheel loosen so that the car swerved and yawed on the irregular road surface. Sam stomped on the gas to flood the engine just as he slipped one hand down and switched off the ignition. The car died.

Sam sat for a moment, shoulders slumped in a tableau of dejection, before he got out of the car and heaved the hood open. Michael followed to peer down at the engine with him. Pete rolled down the window and leaned out. "What's the problem? Didn't you check the car before we left?" He sounded querulous.

Michael walked back and stood by the rear door, shrugging helplessly. "I don't know, Mr. Thornton. It just – well, you saw what happened." He felt a moment's ridiculous impulse to laugh at the charade, but his father's face remained grim, sincere and steady, and the pressure to snicker drained away. He looked around at the dusty unpaved streets and the haphazard buildings, smelled the rank sweat and doubtful sanitation and empty aspirations, and any shred of remaining hilarity in the situation evaporated, leaving an empty queasiness behind.

Sam straightened up from the engine and waved at Michael. "Try it now."

When Michael slid into the driver's seat and turned the key, the car coughed, jerked, and backfired, and he quickly switched it off again. Sam had done nothing more than swap two of the spark plug wires around so the cylinders would fire at the wrong time, but it made the supposed breakdown all the more convincing. As he climbed out of the driver's seat again, Michael saw that they had been well and truly noticed – there was a small crowd already gathered to observe the overdressed strangers – but the locals were keeping their distance.

A tug at his trouser leg, and he looked down into the dark eyes of a skinny boy who might have been eleven.

"You need help, señor? Your car needs help, sí? Wait here! Wait right here! Do not let _anyone_ else bring you help!" Without waiting for an answer, the boy tore off, shouting "Maq! Maq!"

Michael looked over at Sam, who had pulled his head back out of the engine compartment again and was leaning, his elbows resting on the frame, watching the boy run off. "How does he _do _it?" Michael demanded.

Sam shrugged. "I wish I knew."

It was only a few minutes before a tall figure emerged from the mass of quietly murmuring spectators. Michael looked startled – they had forgotten to warn him about the dark hair. With his heavy tan, MacGyver didn't look at all out of place in the crowd. He was wearing faded blue jeans and a thin T-shirt that had been white once and now displayed a scatterplot pattern in shades of engine grease and brake fluid. A small girl was riding on his shoulders, and the young boy was tugging at one hand, dragging him towards the car.

Mac stopped a dozen feet away, swung the girl down from his shoulders and handed her off to the boy. Sam saw him hand the kid a folded banknote and say something in simple Spanish about finding their mother and getting lunch. Then his father was sauntering towards them, hands in pockets, and he had to pretend he'd never seen him before and had no right to pound his back or punch his shoulder or throw his arms around him in a relieved hug.

MacGyver cocked his head to one side and surveyed the car. "_Hola, amigos. ¿Que tal?_"

Michael started to reply – his Spanish had acquired a decent Peruvian accent – but Sam interrupted him. "_¿Hablas ingles? ¿Por favor?_"

Mac's grin was incandescent. "Hey, you guys are American, aren't you? What's wrong with your car, man? You need a little help? Alberto says you broke down."

Sam frowned. "You sound like an American yourself."

Mac shrugged. "Long story." He bent over the engine compartment, reaching in to trace the spark plug wires, his long fingers finding the mismatched pair and putting them to rights. Sam bent over the engine as well, murmuring, "Jesus, it's good to see you. I was worried sick. Everything going okay?"

"Goin' fine. You keeping Pete out of trouble?"

"Doing my best."

"Glad to hear it." Sam felt an absurd glow deep inside at the quiet approval in the murmured remark. "Dug up anything on your end?"

"Not much. I swear we've been in and out of half the government offices in the capital so far, but they won't let us talk to anyone from the Army, or the cops, or the anti-terrorist unit. Pete's ripped patches in a few bureaucratic hides so far, but they only bled more red tape."

"How 'bout María's contacts? Any help from the University here?"

"Señora Cordoba had one piece of real interesting news – Pete better fill you in on that. He's the one who talked to her."

"Weren't you with him?" Mac's voice was mild, but Sam bristled at the implication.

"Not that time, and don't you give me any grief over it. Señora Cordoba sent me off with a couple of her students to get some interviews. It's the only chance I've had so far to do any of the investigation Amnesty International wants."

MacGyver had been examining the entirely innocent battery connections and fan belt, but now he glanced up, and Sam saw worry rather than disapproval. "Just don't go wandering around on your own with a camera – I know you can handle yourself, but just last month three journalists were attacked and beaten by the Lima police."

"What were they doing?" Sam winced; Mac knew it was sympathy, not fear.

"Covering a labour dispute at City Hall."

"You're kidding."

"No, the chief of police himself ordered the attack."

"You _are_ kidding. Right?"

Mac's silence was answer enough. He straightened up and waved to Michael to get into the driver's seat. "That oughta do it," he called out. "You just try starting her up now, and check it out."

Michael had to crank the flooded engine hard, but when it finally turned over, he grinned and flashed a thumbs-up sign. Mac nodded and stepped back, letting Sam close the hood. "Time to let me tell your boss my sob story," he murmured.

Sam walked back to where Pete still sat in the formal isolation of the car's rear seat. "Mr. Thornton? I think maybe you oughta talk to this guy for a few minutes. He claims he's American – I guess he had a run-in with the INS."

Pete rolled down the window the rest of the way. "Well, he's just done us a big favour. I don't see why not. What's the story, young man?"

Mac leaned his arms against the window frame, his shoulders blocking anyone from seeing into the car, and grinned at Pete. "My boss thought I needed a little vacation trip to Peru. How's it goin'? Sam says you've been getting the runaround."

"Yeah. Just about what we expected."

"Any progress at all?"

"Damned little. They claim the investigation is proceeding, and in the next breath they wonder if Dr. Velasquez simply disappeared of her own volition, if you believe that. Then they suggest she must have been kidnapped by terrorists or drug traffickers, with some slimy hint that she somehow provoked it – said something or saw something she shouldn't. Any good news on your end?"

"I sure do."

"Why am I not surprised?" Pete's grin mirrored Mac's.

"I've got a lead on someone from Huancayo – a student of Pilar's – she might know something. She's here in Lima right now. It sounds like they were close. And it looks like I'll be able to hitch a ride up there myself in the next day or so."

Pete frowned. "I don't like the idea of you charging off into the back country on your own."

"Pete, it's the capital city of Junín. It's hardly the back woods. And you were gonna head up there too. Unless there's some point in you staying in Lima to work this end."

"None that I can see. But Rosa Cordoba did have one piece of information – ten days before she disappeared, Dr. Velasquez went up to Huánuco and met with someone; Rosa wasn't sure who, or why. She said Pilar was very evasive about the whole thing.."

"Huánuco? Pete, that's getting into coca country. What was Pilar doin' there?"

"Beats me, but I think we need to find out."

"Yeah." Mac frowned. "You'll need a good excuse to go poking around up there."

"Michael's got some contacts in that area; he can take Sam and me on a tour of that part of the country without raising too many hackles."

"I'm not so sure about that."

Pete looked mildly exasperated. "Fine! Without causing a major international incident. We can rendezvous with you in Huancayo in a few days. Think you can keep out of trouble for that long?"

Mac quirked a half-smile, but his tone was serious when he replied. "You watch yourself, Pete. Okay? We really don't know what we're up against."

"Relax, MacGyver. If there's one thing I've learned in the last few years, it's how to find my way around in the dark."

Mac's eyes glinted in response. He glanced over his shoulder, where Sam was waiting. "We better cut this short now. And don't forget you gotta pay me for the car repairs."

Pete chuckled. "Does your boss know you're moonlighting?"

Mac shook his head as if in dismay, then pushed away from the side of the car, his shoulders slumping. "Okay, okay, Mr. Thornton," he said loudly, sounding dejected and aggrieved. "_Fine_. I can tell when I'm wasting my breath. Thanks for your time and all." He dug his hands into his pockets. "Thanks for nothin'."

Pete leaned partway out of the car. "Look, buddy, I sympathise."

"But it _wasn't my fault_ . . . "

"I'm sorry. There's nothing I can do about US immigration law. They're very strict – "

"Okay, I get it! But you gringos can at least pay me for fixin' your car." Mac threw up his hands, gesticulating at the car and its driver. "If it weren't for me, you'd be walkin' back to your nice fancy hotel. That's gotta be worth a few thousand _soles_ to you guys. I got a family to feed." He added, too softly for anyone but Sam to hear, "Even if it _is_ somebody else's family." Sam gave him a sidelong look as Pete dug into his wallet and produced a handful of currency.

As Pete reached a hand out through the car window, he sensed movement beyond the edge of his vision, and he looked down. "Good lord. We've got company. Or are eavesdroppers coming in extra-small sizes these days?"

Concepción had reappeared, clambering up Mac's leg again. She was getting better with practice; she managed to get past the knee in short order and was now clinging to Mac's thigh, her tiny fingers firmly locked in his belt loops. Mac had some difficulty detaching her so he could hoist her in his arms.

"_Hola, monita. ¿Donde mamacita?_" He turned to Pete, the child in his arms looking in apparent astonishment at the man framed in the car window. "Mr. Thornton, I'd like you to meet Señorita Concepción Ortiz, future Olympic athlete, assuming they ever make compulsive climbing an Olympic sport. Concepción, say hello to the nice American gentleman."

Pete leaned out, smiling at the girl, but she surveyed him with a frown before twisting around to burrow her head into Mac's shoulder. Pete looked wounded. "What did I do?"

"Aw, don't take it personally," Mac said soothingly. "She's kinda particular is all. It's probably just that you don't have enough hair for her to pull."

- x -_  
_

_Most places, when bureaucracy or government falls down on the job, people cope as best as they can. Soon as they get past the running and hiding stage – once they're trying to rebuild their lives – these elaborate networks spring up outta thin air, like mushrooms or cobwebs, only faster. Specially in any place where family's real important – it starts with who you know and who you're related to, and it spreads out from there. Lots of favours get exchanged – sometimes on credit. Folks develop real long, detailed memories of who owes who a favour, and who can do what in a pinch._

_And along with the favours, information can get zapped from one end of a big city to another faster than you can believe. If you can plug yourself into this kinda network, you can get places real fast – when I was with the DXS years back, I'd sometimes hit a new place and know more a week later than the stationed operatives who'd been there for months. I really annoyed some of them when I did that._

_But it's tricky. It's a lot like running white water. The speed can take your breath away; you have to be ready for anything to happen, and you have to watch out all the time – keep your eyes skinned and look ahead. There's always some kind of danger – in the river, it's rocks and shallows, whirlpools and eddies, undertows and channels where the current turns into a millrace. With people, there are personal grievances and jealousies, ambitions and secrets, and the way a person can get completely unpredictable when you get too close to whatever's most important to them. Some folks are dangerous because they're stupid, others because they're smart._

_When I told Hector that I needed to get to Huancayo, we both knew I coulda hopped onto a bus and been there six hours later. And I'd've gotten off the bus a stranger in town. That wasn't what I wanted, and we both knew that. Who would? So he put out feelers for me, and pretty soon he had some nice juicy nibbles. A handshake deal and another set of truck repairs, and I had a seat on a vehicle that was making the trip, and an introduction to the driver._

_That's when things got interesting._

Halfway to Huancayo, Mac was beginning to regret the travel arrangements that had seemed so ideal. _Too good to be true. I shoulda known._

The introduction to Lupe Rodriguez had been prompted partly by the story of his meeting with Pete, which had spread through Villa El Salvador with almost supernatural speed. The tale of the ad hoc car repairs, performed so publicly for the _gringos_ from the _Fundación de Fénix_, had led naturally enough to the subject of the lady doctor from the same _Fundación_ who had been 'disappeared' recently. Disappearance wasn't something people did; it was something that was done _to_ them, and Pilar Velasquez had been popular and respected.

Lupe had been a student of hers, apparently some kind of protegée. She was _mestizo_, born in Junín, about nineteen years old – which in Peru meant she was well past childhood and had already lived through more warfare and brutality than most senior citizens stateside. She carried herself with a decided veneer of maturity, although MacGyver wondered how deep it went. Her accented English was excellent, and when he could get her to speak freely, her face glowed with vivacity and intelligence. Mac could see why Pilar had taken to the girl.

She should have been a good source of information, a good local contact to help him ease into Huancayo and start digging. It should have been easy enough to get Lupe to talk about her mentor, especially in the close quarters of the truck cab; but every time Mac thought he had her safely launched on the subject, Lupe would freeze up or trail off into silence. Or worse, she would make an blatant attempt to deflect him by asking about himself, and that was another problem: she was sharp as a razor and could be as tenacious as a tick. He'd already had to rethink his initial assumptions about her air of naïvité, which he now suspected was as expertly faked as his cover story. He was beginning to worry that he'd reach Huancayo and be just as much the newly-arrived outsider as if he'd taken the bus.

At least the worry helped distract him from the road. Not that Lupe's driving was bad – it was, well, _fearless_, but then, she'd been born in the Andes and would probably find a wide, straight, flat road unnatural and alien. The truck careened around the curves and roared up the grades, with ever-higher cliffs crowding them on one side of the road and ever-longer drop-offs plummeting away on the other.

But the view was worth the strain on his nerves. As the road wound its tortuous way higher and higher into the Andes, Mac's own inclination to talk faded away to nothing. On this side of the ranges, the climate was nearly desert, the towering peaks brown and severe, harsh and uncompromising; but barely two hundred miles to the east, the spine of the continent would collapse and fall away into the deepest, lushest jungle in the world. The impossible raw beauty of the mountains had sunk its teeth into him again.

His visits to Peru had always been prompted by the immediate needs of one friend or another – there was always a mission, a need on a simple human scale – but he could never enter the country, or even think about it, without feeling the grip of the _sierras_ tugging at him. The crazy anomalies fascinated him – the high, dry mountains that bore so little snow, the terrain that lunged incredibly from seaside desert to sky-cracking peaks, only to plummet suddenly into tangled rain forest. The watershed of the Amazon began only a few hundred miles east of the Pacific coastline, all that endless network of twisting water taking the long way round to the other ocean. It was June here – winter – but this close to the Equator, the only seasons were wet and dry.

He wished Sam was there with him. He'd have liked to be there when his son first saw these mountains. Instead, Sam would travel through them with Pete – and they might not even drive; they might hop over by plane, too far above the raw bones of the ranges to really see them for what they were. Maybe on the way back, he and Sam could cross together. That would be good.

MacGyver was pulled out of his reverie by a glance at the indicators on the dashboard. He sat up abruptly.

"Whoa. Lupe. How long has that temperature gauge been in the red?"

He half expected a shrug and the vague reply of someone who hadn't been paying attention. Instead, she replied, "Perhaps a minute or two. I did not know if I should ask you about it. Is it like that because we are so high? We are almost at Tilcomayo. Will it go back down when we do?"

"No, that's not it – dang it. Lupe, you're gonna have to pull over and stop. I have to check the radiator."

"How can you do that? Mac, it will be very hot!"

"Yeah, I know. We'll have to give it time to cool down." The truck had been bleeding coolant like virulent green ichor when it had been brought to him for repairs, but he thought he'd dealt with it – he'd flushed and examined the radiator, replaced the worn hoses and checked the connections, but he hadn't done a pressure test on it. _Dang it! Pinhole leaks. It's gotta be that . . . the steep climb, and the pressure . . . _his mind scrambled back amongst the random goods stowed in the back of the truck, trying to figure out what he could use. "There isn't much in the way of trees, but can you park so the hood's in the shade? That'll help." At this altitude, anything in direct sunlight would get the full blast of the sun's rays, barely filtered by three miles less atmosphere than usual. But anything in the shade would cool off quickly – at over fifteen thousand feet above sea level, there wasn't enough air to hold the heat in.

Mac was lightheaded himself with the rarified air. Once they'd stopped and climbed out, he threw his head back and breathed deeply, his chest expanding, tasting the thin, dry breath of the raw earth. There was the smell of the highway and the truck, but he could turn his back on those and imagine that there was nothing for miles except untrammeled wilderness, and he'd be almost right.

Lupe was studying him, the suspicious look returning to her face. "You are all right, señor? You're not feeling sick at all?"

"Nope." Mac grinned; he couldn't help himself. _Man, I love Peru. A mountain pass that's higher than the entire US, except for a few peaks in Alaska. And no touristy town on the spot, just a few battered signs._ He realised Lupe was still frowning at him doubtfully.

"I've never seen a _gringo_ who didn't get sick at least a little, crossing this high."

_Ow. Busted?_ "I did a lot of mountain climbing before I – well, you know. Before I ended up here. I always liked the mountains," he concluded lamely. Actually, he'd been in Switzerland for a week, followed by three weeks in the Himalayas, working with a team on the successful extraction of a Tibetan dissident. He was grateful for that now, although at the time he'd been worried that he wouldn't get home in time for Sam's graduation.

The frown faded slightly but didn't disappear. Lupe returned to the truck, dug in the back for provisions, and produced stuffed potatoesand tamales wrapped in leaves. Mac bit into his tentatively; Mama Ortiz had a generous hand with every kind of pepper, black, red, or yellow. They sat in silence for some time, listening to the wind sliding past the rocks.

"How about you tell me more about your Doctora Velasquez?" Mac asked, hoping Lupe wouldn't sidestep this time.

She glanced at him, a flick of the head like a startled bird, and laughed nervously. "I have already talked about her too much. You tell me more about yourself." She picked up stray crumbs from their lunch and began to toss them at a nearby rock. "Why do you want to go to Huancayo, if you have never been there? Mama Ortiz says you can fix all kinds of things, not just trucks. You could have stayed in Lima and done very well."

Mac shrugged, lying back with his hands behind his head. _Dang it._ "Well, my mom came from there. Now that I'm here, I figure I oughta find out more about her." María had supplied him with the name of a woman from Huancayo, Isabel Malca, now deceased, who had become a refugee to the States at about the right time.

"Your father. Was he from Huancayo?"

"I never knew my dad," Mac grunted. "I thought he was American – heck, I thought I was born in Minneapolis – turns out I wasn't."

"Isabel Malca – I remember my Tía Sofía talking about her. She's a dreadful gossip, but she knows everybody. I am sure she talked about your mama – but she was Señorita Malca, not Señora. And there _was_ a child," Lupe announced, too casually. "A daughter."

Mac sat up, thinking fast, then raised confused eyes to meet Lupe's. "There was? I've got a sister?"

"No." Lupe cocked her head. "There wasn't one."

Mac climbed to his feet. He towered over her. "You're testing me."

"Are you angry?"

"No, impressed." He returned to the truck to see if the radiator was cool enough yet.

One look at the radiator had confirmed his suspicion of pinhole leaks, worsened to critical by the stress of the climb from Lima. He couldn't fix the radiator properly here – that would have to wait till they reached Huancayo – and first, they had to get there. Mac peered into the back of the truck.

Most of the space was taken up with two secondhand refrigerators, donations for the _vaso de leche_ programme in Huancayo; the space around them had been crammed full of assorted goods and parcels too bulky to be carried easily on the regular bus. He'd lost track early on, trying to keep up with the elaborate and convoluted arrangements for the trip – the truck belonged to a native of Junín who had brought it down the mountains to pick up the fridges from Mama Ortiz, who had arranged for the donated equipment. When the truck had developed engine problems, its owner had left it in Lima while he went off to attend a funeral in Chinca Alta, blithely trusting that the truck would get fixed and a reliable driver would be found to bring it home. Meanwhile, the enterprising Apodaca had arranged for every extra cubic inch of the truck to be filled with additional paying cargo – and had then used most of the money for the cargo to pay for the fuel and the repairs, with only a small commission for himself.

Mac wasn't surprised at the look on Lupe's face when he clambered back out after rooting through the cargo, clutching a jar of ground black pepper. It sometimes seemed to him that the most universal expression of all – even more fundamental than smiles or tears – was that look of blank confusion on people's faces when he got to work.

MacGyver sighed, and got to work.

Black pepper in the radiator, and water to top it up – the pepper would lodge in the pinholes and swell, filling the leaks and holding for long enough to get them to Huancayo. A quick check of the hoses and clamps; everything else was holding up. Mac dropped the hood closed and turned to flash Lupe a confident, reassuring smile.

She was staring at him – not with confusion, or the are-you-totally-crazy look that he'd seen on dozens of faces for most of his life – but as if he was a ghost, or some freakish hallucination.

"It _can't_ be . . . you _fixed_ it . . . you fixed the truck with a damned _jar of pepper_ . . . _Mac_. Dr. Velasquez told me about you – _you're MacGyver!_"

Her face crumbled up, and a flood of tears dissolved the façade of maturity. Nineteen suddenly seemed a very young age indeed.

"I should have _believed_ her, she _told_ me, I should have _trusted_ her . . . I wasted all that time, I should have _waited_ . . . "

"Whoa, whoa, Lupe, what're you talking about?" MacGyver shoved his momentary panic aside and stepped over to her, wrapped his arms around her and held her, stroking her hair and making soothing noises, trying to figure out what had set her off.

Lupe stiffened for a moment, then buried her face in his shoulder, still sobbing. Her rambling, wailing self-accusation shifted briefly to Spanish, too muffled for Mac to follow, then changed back to English.

"She _told_ me. I was so afraid something would happen to her – she always shrugged when I said that, but one day, she told me: 'If they take me, someone will come. You watch and wait for them, and when they come, you will help them. Perhaps Phoenix will send MacGyver. You will like him. He is very handsome and clever.' " Mac felt his cheeks burning and was glad that Lupe's face was still hidden.

"I should have trusted her, believed her. I didn't trust her. Two weeks I have wasted in Lima. _Two weeks!_ The authorities did nothing, I _knew_ they would do nothing, and I thought I could maybe find someone in Lima who would listen, but I could not even find anyone to listen! And then you began to ask questions, and I thought – I did not trust you either! Why did I waste so much time? She could be dead by now!"

Lupe's shoulders felt limp under Mac's hand, as if she'd been carrying half a mountain around for weeks and had finally managed to let it fall. _Wow. Poor kid . . . _

"Señor Maq – I mean MacGyver – I _know_ who took her. _I know where she is_."

- x -_  
_

_When you think about feudalism – well, most people don't think about it at all. Why should they, unless they're historians? But if you do, you mostly think about kings in castles and knights in armour. You don't usually think much about serfdom and slavery and oppression. And you think of it ending centuries ago._

_In Peru, it only ended in the 1950's and 60's. Before that, it was big estates and haciendas, and old, wealthy families with a stranglehold on the land dating back to the Spanish conquest. Busting up the estates mostly swapped one set of problems for another, but at least they're trying to solve the new problems._

_After the land was stripped away from the big plantations, most of the big houses were abandoned; but the Sandoval hacienda, about fifty miles east of Huancayo in the Mantaro valley, was still occupied and staffed – although they had to pay their staff now – and it was still well-kept, shiny with fresh paint, with high walls and armed guards, and a private road for the new cars in the big garage. All that meant money, lots of money, more money that could just come from inheritance or being in the right government pockets – although it seemed the Sandovals had those, too._

_That kind of old power leaves old anger behind. Lupe put together the next piece of the network for me: Magdalena, who used to work at the big Sandoval hacienda before the land reform stripped it of its acreage and its hordes of indentured peons, and her son Tomás, whose skin was a lot lighter than hers and whose father was nowhere to be seen. Magdalena was part of a farmers' cooperative group who grew vegetables and potatoes and sold them to the hacienda; Tomás delivered them to the kitchens, fresh every morning, in a donkey cart. It wasn't a big cart, but I can curl up into a pretty small space if I have to._

_It's easy enough to slip into a place where folks don't all know each other. All you have to do is look just like another person they don't know. It gets a lot trickier the smaller the place is._

Tomás' vegetable cart made its deliveries before dawn, so that the vegetables would be crisp and fresh for the best-paying customers around. MacGyver spent the first half of the day lying low in an outbuilding near the garage, and slipped into the main house early in the afternoon, when the day's heat peaked and activity slowed down. There was an ebb and flow to people's movements in this kind of working community, and with patience and attention you could spot it and fit into it: there was a trick to that.

There was a trick to infiltration too. The staff here wasn't large enough and didn't change often enough for an unfamiliar person to go unremarked. Mac had to stay out of sight completely, which meant being where people weren't. He spent the afternoon in the coal cellar, and was in a good position to spot the movement when a guard was sent down from the kitchen to deliver food to the lower cellars.

_Bingo._

As soon as the guard's heavy footsteps dwindled to nothing up the stairwell, Mac slipped over to the door where the meal had been delivered. There were several on the same short hallway, probably originally intended as storerooms; but this one had been modified, and the carpentry was recent, the fresher surfaces of the wood visibly lighter even in the gloom. A small square window with a heavy barred shutter had been added to the centre of the door. The storerooms were all locked, but the hasp on this one was heavier, and the padlock was new and looked recently oiled.

His fingers worried at the catch until he could swing open the shutter on the small hatch and peer inside. The hatchway was barred with an iron grillwork; he saw it was on hinges, and could be swung open so that food could be passed inside without unlocking the door. The cell was pitch black and fetid. He couldn't tell if it was occupied.

"Dr. Velasquez? Pilar? Are you in there? It's MacGyver."

He heard a thump and a shuffle, and a hoarse voice answered from the shadows. "Oh my god – _MacGyver_? Are you really there?" Stumbling footsteps, and Pilar Velasquez appeared, squinting into the narrow shaft of dim light. "Dear god, please tell me you're real – are you?" The question ended with a sob.

"Hey, relax, of course I'm real. I came to get you outta here." Mac examined the lock – heavy-duty, but standard – and held his penlight in his teeth as he dug out his knife. The thin circle of straw-coloured light wavered and bobbed, then steadied as he worked on the lock. It gave way easily enough and he swung the door open.

Even the dim light from the cellar seemed too bright for Pilar; she winced and squeezed her eyes into slits as she stumbled out and threw her arms around his neck. She was ragged and filthy, and her ribs were jutting ridges under her thin cotton shirt. "Oh my god, oh my god, _Mac_, oh my god . . . " She buried her head in his shoulder.

He held her for a moment, rocking her and stroking her matted hair. It felt like dirty straw under his fingers. "Hey, c'mon, Pilar. Did you think we wouldn't come get you? Helen still needs your recipe for those _empanada_ things."

He heard her give a short laugh that turned into a hiccup, and squeezed her gently before he released her. "C'mon. Let's get outta here. We have to be ready when our ride gets here." He knew there was still plenty of time, but he wanted to get out of the dank dimness of the cellars. The place made his skin crawl.

"Wait, MacGyver – what about the other prisoner?"

"What?" Mac blinked at her. "There's someone else down here? Who?" Lupe hadn't mentioned anyone else – not that she'd have known. But Tomás hadn't said anything about it either.

"I don't know. I think it's another woman . . . I've never seen her, but sometimes I hear echoes of muttering – I think she talks to herself – and one night I heard a thin high voice singing in English. The guard takes food to her, and wash water once a week, the same as me. MacGyver, you must help her too. She's been here longer than I have. They never let her out of her cell, and no-one speaks to her." Pilar looked around the cellars, frowning, and pointed off towards a farther corner, where a black shadow marked the arched opening of another wing of the dingy labyrinth. "Over there, I think – that's where the sounds come from."

"Stay here." Mac switched off his penlight and slipped cautiously through the cellar, treading as softly as he could; he didn't like the way the echoes chased each other unpredictably around the irregular ceiling. The arch led into a dim hallway, with what looked like a wine cellar at the far end and several storerooms along its length, all with heavy doors of rough-hewn planks.

One door had been modified, a centre hatch added like the one on Pilar's cell – but not recently; the wood frame around the shutter was weathered with age and damp. And there was something odd about the heavy padlock on the door: MacGyver shone the penlight on it and was astonished to see that it had been snapped shut through the hasp, and then _welded_. It couldn't be opened without breaking the lock itself. _What is this, Amontillado? Man, they're not messing around with this one._ "Hey? Anyone in there?"

A thready voice replied: tremulous, high-pitched, and weirdly, disturbingly familiar. MacGyver's gut curdled as if he'd swallowed something rancid. "Hello? Please, help me – please . . . "

Mac prised open the stiff bolt on the shutter blocking the small window. It swung open to show a set of bars, more narrowly spaced than on the other cell, and another black pit of a room beyond.

A single hand reached up suddenly out of the blackness and grasped the bars of the tiny opening.

It wasn't a woman's hand; bony knuckles stood out sharply as the hand grasped the bars. The skin was pale under a coat of dirt, the nails ragged, filthy claws. MacGyver heard scraping inside and realised the prisoner in the cell was using the hold on the bars to haul herself – no, _himself_ – upright.

A manic, high-pitched giggle came from the other side of the door, and the sudden familiarity of the laughter slammed into Mac, stopping his breath dead in his suddenly dry mouth. The coolness of the cellars had been welcome after the cloying, damp heat outside, but the temperature suddenly plunged as Mac's blood froze.

"_Murdoc__?_"

- x -_  
_


	6. Comma Splice

**Reverb**

_Six: __Comma Splice_

- x -_  
_

When the face appeared at the grille, recognition was difficult; MacGyver had never seen Murdoc with a beard before. The hair was long, matted and greasy, laced with grey smears like bird droppings. The eyes were terrible, endless hollow pits of shadow, gleaming with mad delight.

"Why, MacGyver." The voice was casual and amused, almost amiable. It made Mac's skin crawl. "I never expected to see you here. Although, you know, I really should have. It's just the sort of thing that you'd do. You're rescuing that other prisoner, the woman, aren't you?"

"_Murdoc_? What the heck are _you_ doin' here?" Mac resisted the urge to pinch himself. He knew he wasn't dreaming, although he wished he could wake up and make it go away.

"Oh, very little, actually. There isn't much to do. Oh, you mean why am I locked up?" Murdoc gave a mirthless, toothy grin. "Wouldn't you know? It seems I killed the wrong person."

"Yeah, I'll just bet."

Murdoc pulled a sullen, almost sulky face. "Oh, it wasn't anything as crude as a mistaken identity. I would _never_ be so careless. It would be . . . unprofessional. But it did turn out to be a very bad idea in the long run." He shrugged. "They overcharge tourists quite dreadfully around here . . . the going rate for revenge is supposed to be a pound of flesh, isn't it? I've lost quite a lot more than that. Not that I've weighed myself or anything."

"How long've you been here?"

The haggard face frowned. "Do you know, I'm not at all sure. What month is it now?"

"June."

"And, if you don't find the question . . . odd . . . what year is it?"

In spite of himself, Mac felt a bubble of unwelcome compassion well up at the implications of the question. He squelched it. "1996."

"Yes, of course it's an odd question . . . " Murdoc cocked his head to one side. "It's rather like the Mad Hatter trying to reset his watch, the one that only tells what the year is, not the time of day. _Is_ it daytime? No, I suppose not, you'd hardly sneak in here during the day, would you?" His eyes glittered, and the facile mask slipped for a moment. "You _are_ going to get me out too, right?"

Murdoc had been pressing his face close to the bars of the small grille. Mac took a half step back, and saw a flash of anguish cross the other man's face. "Seems to me that life in prison for murder is about what you've had comin' for a long time, Murdoc."

The mask returned. Murdoc tch'd. "Oh, MacGyver. You disappoint me. Don't you believe in justice?"

"That's the whole point," Mac said softly.

"You don't really think I had a _trial_ before they locked me in here?"

MacGyver shrugged. "Well, maybe not. But, y'know, I try to respect local customs."

"You'd _like_ to leave me here, wouldn't you? You'd just _love_ that . . . " Murdoc's voice fell to a hissing whisper. "But you can't do it, can you?"

"Watch me."

"Wait!" Another flash of real alarm cracked through the façade. "There must be something . . . don't you have any – questions after all this time? I could answer a few . . . " The tone had become wheedling, a small spoiled child angling for a treat.

In spite of himself, Mac felt gaffed. There really _were_ way too many unanswered questions. "Okay. When you chased me up the Widowmaker, all those years ago – how the heck _did _you survive? You fell over _three hundred feet_ off that cliff. I _know_ you fell."

"Oh, yes." Murdoc's eyes widened dramatically. "Did you watch me fall? You heard me screaming as I went down, didn't you? After you pushed me."

"I did _not_ push you! You were tryin' to kill me! You cut your own rope!"

"Did I?" A bemused frown. "Oh, well, I suppose I did."

"But . . . _nobody _shoulda been able to survive that."

The reply was an insane giggle. Mac's nerves felt as if ragged fingernails had been scraped across a chalkboard. "Maybe I didn't. Maybe I'm a ghost. Some days I feel like one . . . " Murdoc's eyes had grown distant; suddenly they snapped into piercing, lucid focus. "Get me out of here, and I'll tell you. I'll tell you everything, MacGyver. There's so much that you don't know. You haven't even _started_ to guess it, any of it." Murdoc's fingers clenched on the bars, the knuckles of the hand – it was the left hand – standing out stark and pale. "_For god's sake, MacGyver, get me out of this hellhole_!"

Mac tried to meet his eyes, tried to assess the situation coolly, to think first about Pilar and priorities. There wasn't room in Tomás' cart for three escapees . . . there wasn't really even room for two. How long had they been holding Murdoc down here? Just how much did it take to hold him, anyway? The hue and cry would be monumental if the man escaped – _I can use that_ – MacGyver glanced away, looking back towards the cellars, his mind racing and assessing. He didn't need to see the triumphant gleam light Murdoc's face. They both knew Murdoc had won.

This round.

When MacGyver turned and hurried away from the door of the cell, Murdoc didn't protest the desertion, didn't move or speak. He merely waited until Mac came back, carrying several pieces of heavy iron pipe he'd found in the cellar, a frightened Pilar in tow.

"Better step back from the door."

Murdoc smirked. "Easy for you to say."

MacGyver frowned, but the other man remained where he was. Mac shrugged and set to work. He'd have preferred a crowbar, but the pipes would have to serve; he threaded a small piece through the hasp of the welded padlock, jammed two longer sections onto the ends, and heaved at the makeshift windlass. For an agonising moment, nothing happened; Mac felt the muscles of his arms and shoulders bunching up with the strain. _Do you __really__ want to let him out?_ He answered himself with a furious redoubling of his efforts, and the lock torqued and snapped, swung drunkenly on its bent catch and clattered to the stone floor.

The door shifted, and Murdoc swayed, his one-handed grip on the bars of the hatch tightening.

"I _told_ you to step back," Mac growled.

"Oh, believe me, I would have if I could," Murdoc replied mildly, then giggled. The sound rasped on Mac's already raw nerves.

"You coming or not?"

Murdoc looked thoughtful. "I'm afraid I might need some assistance . . . " The door, with Murdoc still clinging to it, creaked and swung open. Puzzled, Mac stepped to the threshold and played his penlight around the miserable, cramped, fetid cell, bringing the light back to where Murdoc should have been standing. He wasn't standing; he was sprawled on the floor by the open door, grinning up at MacGyver. He sat up and swung his legs around in front of himself.

The right foot was bare, calloused, and filthy. The left leg ended in a stump.

Mac swallowed hard, fighting the urge to retch. Murdoc smirked again.

"Well now, there we are. I don't suppose you can lend me a hand?" Murdoc raised both arms, and this time MacGyver had to turn his face away. The right hand was also missing.

When Mac turned back, Murdoc was regarding the stump of his right wrist with amused detachment. "You know, they seem to have some absurd notion that I might escape if they aren't very, very careful. And the thought of my escaping makes them very, _very_ nervous." He shrugged and grinned mirthlessly. "I can't blame them. They know I'll come back, after all, and what I'll do when I do."

"Hasn't there been enough killing already?" Mac fought the impulse to slam the door shut again and find a way to seal it off.

"That depends," Murdoc looked thoughtful. "Do I count myself for half a point?"

MacGyver pulled him to his feet, draped one of Murdoc's thin arms over his shoulders and helped him out of the cell, his mind ticking over possible solutions to the suddenly complicated rescue problem. The difference in their heights made movement awkward, but Mac noticed that, in spite of his thinness and the mutilations, Murdoc was surprisingly agile; there was a wiry strength and a manic energy to him as he hopped along in their reluctant three-legged progress.

"We need to get hold of some boots for you," Mac said, half to himself.

" 'Boots'? Plural?" Murdoc's tone was mocking.

"Yeah. Plural. The guards wear boots – what kind of schedule do the guards keep on you down here? Will they check the cells again before morning?"

"I'm not sure," Pilar said. "It varies."

"Not as much as you'd think. Our dear Pilar here often entertains visitors at all hours of the day or night."

Even in the dim light of the cellars, MacGyver saw Pilar's face blanch.

Murdoc continued remorselessly. "Which is a problem when one has no clock and can't tell which is which. But they've left you in peace for two nights running, my girl. From this, I surmise that La Roja is not at home today – is that true, MacGyver?"

"You mean Esperanza Rojas?"

"Oh, the very same. The Crimson Lady of the Mantaro Valley. Mine esteemed hostess these last long years."

"Ma – " MacGyver cut himself off before he let Magdalena's name slip out. "My local contact said she's gone to Lima for a few days."

"She's probably sniffing at her government grapevines to see if anyone's poking around looking for Pilar. In which case she may return rather more quickly than we'd like. But in the meanwhile . . . when milady is not at home, the staff checks the cells as part of the regular security sweep at the end of the day." Murdoc made a face. "I suppose you already have a plan, don't you?"

"Yeah. Sorry to be so predictable."

"Oh, trust me, sometimes predictability is a delightful virtue. Not that I know much about virtue."

- x -_  
_

MacGyver had spent most of the day waiting, but this wait seemed long and tiresome in contrast. He had tucked himself back into the shadows under the cellar stairs for the duration; Pilar curled up beside him and fell asleep, the regular soft sounds of her breathing occasionally broken by disturbed mutterings in Spanish. Mac didn't want to imagine what her dreams might be like.

When the quiet of the cellars was broken by the creak and scrape of the main door opening at the top of the cellar stairs, it was a shock as well as a relief. Yellow light from the electric bulb in the upper hallway carved a sharp slice out of the darkness, deepening the gloom around it to blackness.

Mac had nudged Pilar when the first sounds began at the door, and she was ready by the time it opened. She slipped away from the stairs and approached openly from the direction of her cell, calling out. "_Madre de Dios_! Help me!"

"What's going on down there?" The bright beam of a flashlight darted around in the dimness, finding and fixing Pilar in a pool of light. "You! What the devil – "

Pilar was hurrying forwards, her hands outstretched, her face imploring. "Blessed Mother of God, somebody's finally here! Guard, the crazy person in the other cell has been talking to himself again. I think he's out in the cellar somewhere!"

"That's not possible . . . " the guard peered at her.

Another voice, with a high, clear timbre, cut in. "Idiot. _Anything_ is possible. Go and check!"

The guard hurried down the steps. From where he watched under the stairs, Mac set his jaw. The man wasn't alone; there was a second person with him. _That's gonna make it a lot more complicated._

The guard, already nervous, almost jumped out of his boots when he stumbled over Murdoc, lying prone on the cellar floor not far from the stairs. He pinned him with the flashlight.

"How the hell did you get out of your cell?"

Murdoc's Spanish was fluent and easy, with a flawless Peruvian accent. "My _mamacita_ came to visit me. I had to walk her to the door when she left." The high-pitched giggle echoed around the vaulted cellar. "She says I'm much too thin."

He dragged himself a few feet closer to the bottom of the stairs – elbows and knees, the toes of the one foot finding purchase on the rough floor. The guard drew back instinctively, and the wavering beam of the flashlight made Murdoc's shadow jump on the wall, a giant, ragged, poisonous spidery shape.

"Get away from the damned stairs, carrion," the guard rasped. Behind him, Mac heard the creak of footsteps on the stairs; the second person was descending. The figure was short and slender – for a moment, as Mac slipped from his hiding place, he thought it was a woman; then he got a better look and saw it was a young boy, perhaps eleven or twelve, well dressed in sharply tailored clothing, crisp pressed creases casting sharp shadows. The boy and the man loomed over Murdoc, and the boy drew back one booted foot and kicked him roughly.

MacGyver tackled the guard from behind, slamming him sideways into the boy, bowling the kid over so he sprawled on top of Murdoc's prone form. _Even like this, he oughta be able to handle a kid._ A few minutes' scuffle, and MacGyver was standing over the unconscious guard, shaking the sting out of the bruised knuckles of his right hand. _One of these days I __really__ gotta quit doin' that._

He turned to see how Murdoc was managing with the kid, and froze, the blood in his veins curdling. Murdoc had seized the falling boy and was holding him tightly; his one hand had the kid's head locked at the horrifying angle just short of snapping the neck. The boy's eyes were wide and dark, but curiously unafraid.

"_Murdoc_!"

Murdoc raised one sardonic eyebrow, but didn't loosen his grip.

"For pity's sake, Murdoc, _he's just a kid_!"

Murdoc sniffed. "Now, that's a curious expression, in the circumstances – much too ironic . . . there's never any pity here in Casa Rojas . . . " He murmured into the boy's ear. "What do you think, my little playmate? Shall we let the brave _Yanqui_ hero think you're a sweet little cub?" His eyes glittered as he looked at MacGyver. "Felix here is the son of Carlos Sandoval and Esperanza Rojas. Hardly a kid. Never an innocent. Trust me on this one. If we were to put him down, the world would be just that smidgen closer to being a better place. Even closer than if you'd get over yourself and kill me."

"Murdoc, if you kill _anybody_, I swear I'll leave you here to rot."

Murdoc let out a long sigh. "Oh, very well." He whispered into the boy's ear again. "Well, what do you think, Master Félix? Will you miss our little games? I can't say I shall. And I had almost enough points saved up for a decent meal and a shave, too."

Félix' eyes gleamed. As MacGyver reached down, took a firm grip on his arms and drew him away from Murdoc, he spat in Murdoc's face.

Murdoc merely smirked as Mac took the boy back to Pilar's cell. It went against the grain to leave him locked in there, wrists and ankles bound with the ever-handy duct tape, but Pilar's life was at stake as well. It wouldn't be for long.

Possibly not long enough. Mac returned to the cellar. "How soon are they gonna come lookin' for him?"

"Oh, two or three hours at least. When Master Felix pays his calls, he always gives strict instructions that he is _not_ to be disturbed."

Mac glanced uneasily up at the cellar door. "What about the noise we've made?"

"They're used to unpleasant sounds coming from down here," Murdoc replied drily.

Mac's face felt as if he'd developed a permanent wince. He handed Murdoc the boots Félix Sandoval had been wearing – elegant calf-high riding boots in supple, highly polished leather. "I think these'll fit you better than the guard's boots."

"Oh, how nice. Much better than those miserable heavy combat boots." Murdoc grasped the boots with his left hand, steadied the burden with the stub of his right arm. The movement was smooth and natural; Mac wondered how long ago the amputation had been done. Trust Murdoc to force himself to acclimate to something like that.

"Pilar, can you get the boots off the guard? We're gonna need his socks. And his shirt." Once the unconscious guard was barefoot and stripped to the waist, Mac hauled him back to the same hallway where Pilar's cell was and secured him in one of the other storerooms. By the time he returned, Pilar was helping Murdoc wrestle Félix' left boot onto his intact foot.

MacGyver settled himself on the floor, picked up the right boot and pulled out his Swiss Army knife. Murdoc rolled his eyes theatrically.

"Oh, for God's sake. That damned knife. _Must_ you? I suppose your plan involves duct tape as well, doesn't it?"

For answer, Mac pulled the depleted roll out of his pocket and set it on the floor within easy reach. He handed the guard's shirt to Pilar. "Tear that up into strips, willya? We're gonna need to pack the foot solid."

It was going to be a crude effort at best; there wasn't time for refinement. Pilar helped Murdoc stand as MacGyver fitted the stuffed boot to the stump of Murdoc's ankle as best as he could. The cloth provided padding as well as filling in the foot. Mac had carved wide horizontal slices of leather out of the boot's uppers, and now he strapped the boot directly to Murdoc's leg with the duct tape. Taking it off wouldn't be pleasant, but they'd worry about that later. There wasn't much hair on Murdoc's leg anyway – _never thought there'd be an upside to malnutrition._

Pilar frowned at the final results. "What about pronation and supination?"

"As in, weasels wobble, but they don't fall down?" Murdoc smirked.

Mac found an old pushbroom in the cellar; with the bristles removed and more of the guard's shirt for padding, it made an adequate crutch. "We gotta get out of here – I want to give them something to think about before they start wondering where the kid's got himself to." He frowned at Murdoc. "You didn't seem surprised when the extra company showed up."

"Oh, I knew it might happen," Murdoc replied airily as he tested the crutch. "Master Félix prefers to make his little visits when his mother isn't around to scold him for keeping bad company."

- x -_  
_

_Spend a lot of time with anything, and you start to see it in a different way. I guess I've spent more time than most folks dealing with locks and doors and walls and gates and so on. It makes a big difference if you know, or can tell, __why__ a door's been locked or a wall's been built. Doors open both ways, after all, and so do locks. A wall that's meant to keep people out is different from one intended to keep them in. Some walls aren't even meant to do either; they're built to intimidate, or control, or frighten, or annoy, or show off._

_I figured the walls around Hacienda Sandoval had been built during the heyday of Shining Path – they were intended to keep out people in big, armed, more or less organised groups. These days the walls were mostly just used to keep track of who went in and out. The doors that were actually meant to stop movement were the ones down in the cellars._

The walls around the compound were whitewashed stucco, high and sturdy, although they wouldn't have stood long against a determined attack. At the main gate, where the paved private road ran out from the turnaround in front of the oversized garage, there was a sharp-eyed young man with an FAL rifle. MacGyver didn't like the sharp eyes, or the gun.

"I don't like this," Pilar had said.

"You'll be okay," Mac had replied.

"That is not what I meant. That man – he frightens me. He is very convincing when he acts crazy."

_It's not an act._ "I'll be okay."

Pilar had thrown her arms around him in a fierce hug, then reluctantly slipped into the hiding place MacGyver had found for her.

But the main gate wasn't the only entrance to the compound – or the only exit. The service gate, where Tomás had entered with his cart, was closer to the house, around the back. It was kept secured when it wasn't in use, and was watched by the staff, but there was no formal armed guard. There was also a postern gate near the stables, supposedly for the exclusive use of the family – although the stable-master also used it to exercise the horses every morning. The Sandovals kept Peruvian _pasos_, and the stable-master was a minor god amongst the staff. He slept in a well-appointed apartment off the stables, and was already sound asleep when Mac slipped into his room and made sure he'd stay there for a while.

In the stables, Murdoc eyed the tall bay gelding with patent discomfort. "MacGyver, I'm really not at my best with animals . . . "

Mac was settling the saddle blanket onto the bay, sliding it back so the animal would carry the saddle comfortably, and didn't look up. "Aw, c'mon, Murdoc. Don't tell me you're scared of horses as well as snakes."

"Well, you know. When you get right down to it . . . horses are rather . . . big."

Mac ignored him as he heaved the ornate saddle into place. He suspected that the gelding belonged to Félix Sandoval; the tack was showy, exquisitely tooled leather spangled with silver fittings, but at the same time well-made and well-kept. For its size, the saddle was fairly light; he had to let out the stirrups a good deal to accommodate his own height.

"You know, my sister Ashton had a little pet dog once. The wretched thing bit me."

Mac looked up from tightening the cinch, his eyes narrowed. "Liar."

"It's true! It never bit anyone else."

Mac let out a whuff of exasperation. The bay laid its ears back in surprise and looked at him as if trying to understand the unusual signal. "I'm not talkin' about the dog! – though it wouldn't surprise me. I'm talking about your story. I'm not sure you ever _had_ a childhood, but you sure didn't spend it with your sister. She didn't even know you existed. If she _was_ your sister. You think we didn't investigate?"

"Oh, I'm quite sure that you did." Murdoc waved his hand airily. "You probably dogged poor Ashton's footsteps for months. Read her mail, tapped her phone, hauled her in for endless hours of questioning in smoke-filled back rooms with hard chairs and poor lighting."

"_No_. But we did interview her mother."

"Oh, of _course_! And how is dear Mumsy?"

"Kinda confused, since she never had a son."

Instead of looking distressed, Murdoc sniggered. "Is that what she told you?"

"And it took a while to dig it out, but it seems Mr. Cooke never existed at all – his whole history was faked."

"_The __other__ day upon the stair  
__I met a man who wasn't there . . . _" Murdoc waved his hand again as if conjuring.

"_. . . He wasn't there, no how, no way.  
__Send him a tie for Father's Day._" He ended in a sardonic drawl, and laughed again.

Mac turned away from Murdoc and drew a deep breath as he picked up the bridle, reminding himself that the horses would pick up on anger and exasperation. He'd spent a short, precious time in the stables very early that morning, making friends with the bay and the handsome roan mare in the next stall. He ran a hand along the bay's flank, wishing he only had the horses to handle. Their company was far more wholesome than Murdoc's.

- x -_  
_

With the mistress away, nightfall at the hacienda should have been tranquil, as the day's tasks were finished and the swift fall of darkness brought respite from labour. But the young master was at home, and one could never be sure when or where he might suddenly turn up.

Victor Hinojosa, the assistant steward, would have liked to slip away to the village for a few hours to see his sweetheart; but instead he settled the heavy wood barrier into place across the opening of the service gate and latched it securely. He glanced briefly at the tall wrought-iron gates that could be rolled out and locked to wall off the outside world entirely, and reminded himself to have the hinges and wheels oiled tomorrow. It had been several months since the big gates had last been closed, and the damned things would be rusted and stiff by now – it would be a slow and difficult struggle if they actually had to use them. And it would be just like the young master to suddenly insist on their being shut.

At least the fears of an attack by Shining Path were no more than a memory now. In the bad old days, every gate would have been barred and locked at all times, except when needed. Victor had been at the hacienda since boyhood, slowly working his way up the ranks of the house servants, and he remembered all too well. Betweern the Army and the insurgents, the only safe place was behind a thick wall and a locked door, and even that wasn't to be trusted. The Army could insist on being allowed inside. Fortunately, the master had always had plenty of money and influence, just as the mistress did now.

Victor stopped for a few minutes to enjoy the sweet smells of the night air and the humming of the insects. His ears pricked up in alarm at the sound of hoofbeats.

"Name of the Devil – " _No-one_ should be out riding at this hour. And the sounds were inside the compound, not outside. And coming closer! Victor's eyes widened in horror as two horses rounded the corner from the direction of the stables and headed for him at an all-out gallop.

"_Madre de Dios_ – " There was nothing he could do except dive out of the way as the horses bore down on him. He caught a glimpse of the riders as they swept past him, both horses bunched together, clearing the barrier in a long leap and pounding away into the night. Victor cursed as he scrambled to his feet. _Thieves!_ And escapees – his blood ran cold. There had been a third rider perched behind the man on the great bay gelding– oh, God have mercy, that was the young master's own horse, and now it had been stolen on his watch . . . Victor wondered for a frenzied moment if he could still run away, change his name, and join the _guerrillas_.

MacGyver risked a moment to glance over his shoulder, imagining the compound stirred up like a hive of deeply insulted bees. The buzzing would become even fiercer when they checked the cellars and found the Sandoval kid down there instead of the prisoners. The search would intensify then – the staff would be desperate to catch the escapees. They wouldn't be able to wait until morning; they'd be on the fugitives' heels as fast as they could rally.

_Harry used to grumble about locking the barn door after the horses had already been stolen . . . but the real point is that nobody bothers to search the barn after that._ They might catch himself and Murdoc, although they had a good lead and a good chance. But Pilar would be safe, hidden in the stables until Tomás arrived before dawn with his vegetable cart and took her safely away to Huancayo.

- x -_  
_


	7. Intransitive

**Reverb**

_Seven: __Intransitive_

- x -_  
_

_I hate to admit that Murdoc and I had anything in common, 'cause we didn't. But sometimes, it was like I had him figured out – I knew how he thought. Then his brain would duck into a new twist of that sick inner maze, some direction I didn't wanna go, and he'd lose me._

By the time dawn blossomed over the sierras, MacGyver and Murdoc were miles away from Hacienda Sandoval. Mac had headed north and east, away from the Mantaro and towards the uplands, and the terrain was slowly showing signs of increased rainfall, the tree cover growing thicker and more lush. But they weren't out of the woods by any means; since the whole idea was to draw off pursuit, Mac had made sure that their first few hours of flight had left a trail as clear as the Nazca Lines.

Pilar would be safe by now. It was time to think more strategically about shaking off pursuit themselves, before full daylight gave their foes a chance to come after them in greater numbers and with more of an advantage. Mac hoped they wouldn't be chased by helicopters, but you never knew.

In that first ferocious dash at full gallop, Mac hadn't had time to worry too much about Murdoc falling off the mare. They'd already argued about whether to actually tie Murdoc into the saddle, or at least rope his feet – well, foot and boot – to the stirrups; Murdoc had wanted the added security and then changed his mind. Instead, Mac had cannibalised another saddle for more leather straps, and rigged a neck strap for the mare, with an extra loop for a handhold. The mare had come along willingly on a leading rein, and even when they'd jumped the barrier, she'd stuck close to the gelding as if both horses had been trained for it.

When they'd paused for their first breather, Mac had swung off the bay, with the stuffed dummy he'd used to simulate a third rider still secured to his back. The gelding nosed at the dummy as he unstrapped it, trying to steal a mouthful of the hay. Mac rubbed the horse's neck affectionately; he'd assembled the dummy in the bay's stall, giving the animal every chance he could to get familiar with the weird floppy bundle it would have to carry. But most horses would have been spooked anyway.

Mac laid the dummy over the mare's withers for now. Later, after they'd broken away from the clear trail, he'd scatter the hay – or feed it to the horses – and bury or burn the rags of Pilar's and Murdoc's prison garb. The stable-master's extra clothing had been ridiculously large on Pilar, although Murdoc was closer to the right size. MacGyver didn't let Murdoc alight – there was nothing here to use as a mounting block, and it had been hard enough to get him up into the saddle in the first place.

It was time to disappear. _Horses can go where vehicles can't._ Mac turned due north into the higher country. They wouldn't cover as much distance on the rougher ground, but they'd be harder to follow. With some careful trickery and a bit of luck, they might be able to vanish. _Depends on how good their trackers are . . ._ but Mac felt fairly confident there. This part of Peru didn't have much of a hunting tradition; the local _campesinos_ were herders and farmers, not trackers. And the original Spanish nobility hadn't had the hunting addiction of British colonials – MacGyver remembered an exhausting, nerve-wracking day and a half in Sierra Leone, when he'd almost failed to escape from a vindictive arms dealer who'd taken excessive pride in his ancient English lineage.

He kept the pace steady but easy. The Peruvian horses had been an incredible stroke of luck – their natural _paso llano _gait ate up distance like anything without subjecting the unaccustomed rider to the agonies of a trot. Mac doubted that Murdoc could have endured that. He hadn't spoken since the dash for the gate, and sat on the mare like a sack of lumpy potato peelings, his one hand still clenching the leather loop with a white-knuckled grip that showed no signs of relaxing. His teeth were set and his gaze didn't seem to be focused on anything at all.

The mare clearly wasn't happy with the unresponsive rider who smelled so sharply of fear, although at least his scarecrow thinness made him a light burden. She remained patient and followed Mac's lead contentedly, as they alternated between a walk and that lovely smooth ambling canter that was one of the joys of riding in Peru. The pace had to slow as the way grew steeper; Mac took the horses through thickening swathes of forest, where their trail couldn't be seen by overhead searchers, and urged them up rocky slopes, where dislodged stones under their feet rattled away and left longer and longer echoes as they climbed higher.

At the top of one long steep ascent, MacGyver stopped to breathe the horses, dismounting to examine their legs and hooves. A lame horse at this point would be disastrous, and not just for the horse – Mac had pushed his perpetually overstrained luck way too hard when they'd jumped the barrier.

MacGyver looked thoughtfully up at Murdoc, frowning. He must have been in agony from the unfamiliar strain of riding, but it didn't show in his face. Murdoc raised an eyebrow, the first real sign of life for some time. "What?"

"The beard."

Murdoc smirked, and any shred of sympathy Mac might have had blew away in the morning breeze. "You don't like it? Maybe you think a dashing little goatee would suit my rakish personality better?"

"No, it's not just the beard – it's the face."

Murdoc smirked again. "The best that money could buy."

MacGyver scowled. "Would you cut it out? Yeah, you turned up one day without all the scarring and said you'd gotten a new face – like that's even possible! _C'mon_, Murdoc. If those scars had ever been real, you wouldn't have a beard right now. It couldn't have grown like that through the scar tissue. Even the best plastic surgeons in the world can't do that much reconstruction. Be nice if they could. There's plenty of burn victims who didn't get their scars from tryin' to kill people."

"You know, it's a funny thing about really bad scarring." Murdoc answered almost nonchalantly, as if they'd been discussing philosophy or literature at some sidewalk café. "People don't like to look at it. They'll glance quickly – almost furtively – and look away. And afterwards, all they remember is the scars. You can walk down the street in a clown suit and nobody will even notice, since they're oh-so-carefully not looking at you." He released his vise-like grip on the handhold for the first time, flexed his fingers, shrugged. "It kept you and Thornton from looking too deeply, after all. Speaking of that, how is dear Peter? Is his eyesight any better?"

"Don't change the subject. So the burns – the scars _were_ fake all along. _Why_? Why all the faking?"

"Oh, MacGyver, you are _such_ a Philistine. I suppose you've never even _seen_ 'The Phantom of the Opera', have you? You really should have spent more time studying the classics! Alexandre Dumas, Mark Twain, Charles Dickens . . . Shakespeare." Murdoc waved his hand airily. "Disguise becomes a habit. And I've always loved it for its own sake – playing sleight of hand with one's own face . . . and the best was for dear Penny. A mask within a mask. How is she, by the way? Still trying to become a star, the dear, silly goose?"

Mac scowled at him. "You're not doin' too great at answering questions," he snapped. "Maybe I shouldn't be surprised that you can't keep a promise – but I could still leave you for the Sandoval troops to catch again."

Murdoc gave him a considering look. "Could you? Could you _really_?"

"You wanna try me?"

"Oh, I thought I already was." Murdoc grinned mirthlessly.

- x -_  
_

MacGyver reluctantly accepted what he'd suspected for some time: the showy bay gelding, although it had a heart as wide as the broad alpine sky above, was bred for shorter, faster runs, not for hours of steady work on rough terrain. The roan mare was more sure-footed, with the kind of iron stamina that always filled Mac with awe.

Murdoc hadn't said much for the last few hours; Mac assumed that he was saving his strength. The horse wasn't the only thing around with an iron stamina, although he didn't know how much of Murdoc's was rooted in stubborn vengefulness, and how much was a blind refusal to be destroyed. There were still a lot of unanswered questions.

They would do better on the single horse, even on the rough terrain; the mare would probably appreciate a better rider, and Mac could alternate walking and riding if he had to. If he released the bay, the handsome gelding would undoubtedly return home in search of fodder and familiar surroundings, if it wasn't found and appropriated by a passing opportunist; and with any luck, the trail would be badly confused.

But it was hard to say good-bye to any friend. He wished he had an apple to share with the bay, but at least he could give both horses a proper break before parting company. The riders, too, although there wasn't much he could do for Murdoc, not until they got to a settlement.

They had reached an upland clearing, where a foaming alpine rivulet ran down sparkling in the sun before cascading off a rocky overhang. The forest ahead of them was growing thicker, but the ground fell steeply away to one side, and the long vista was breathtaking. A stone outcropping offered a makeshift mounting block; MacGyver doubted he'd be able to get Murdoc back onto the mare without some kind of help, and he didn't feel up to contriving a winch.

Murdoc gritted his teeth before he attempted the dismount and slid to the ground in a boneless heap. Mac heard him swearing under his breath, mostly in a Spanish too colloquial for him to follow, which suited him fine. He handed Murdoc the crutch and turned his attention to pulling the tack off the horses.

Murdoc pulled himself upright and peered out over the waves of rising country. "Oh, look. It's a nice high precipice. How positively nostalgic. Perhaps I should save us both a lot of time and bother, and hurl myself off it right now, shouting your name. Then you could spend a few months – or years – wondering just when and where I'll turn up again."

Mac didn't answer. He checked the temperature of the water in the stream – the sun had been on it for long enough that it wasn't icy, so he let both horses drink briefly, then led them away. Murdoc had turned away from the overhang and pulled himself to the side of the stream to drink. He drank from his cupped left hand, propping himself up on the right elbow. In the full light of day, MacGyver could see that both forearms were heavily calloused, the thickened skin dark with ground-in dirt.

When Mac approached with the horses, Murdoc eyed them uneasily and drew back from the stream, pulling himself along crablike on knees and forearms, as he had in the cellar, until he reached the rock heap where he'd left the crutch. Mac wondered if he didn't trust the crutch to hold up under much use – it _was_ pretty flimsy – or if he'd simply gotten used to crawling. The motion was familiar and practiced; Mac wondered again at the kind of relentless persistence it must have taken to adapt to the injuries while trapped in the oubliette. Murdoc settled himself comfortably, his back against the rocks, looking out across the tumbled horizon.

"MacGyver, do I dare ask if you actually know where we are?"

"We're headed for the Ene River," Mac answered shortly. "Why? Did you think we were wanderin' around in circles?"

"Just wondering," Murdoc said lightly. "Are we actually going someplace in particular, or are you making this up as you go along?"

"I've got a contact who'll hide us for the night." Mac had always intended to flee the hacienda in a different direction and draw off pursuit. Magdalena had sent word to one of her cousins, who farmed near Quiteni along a tributary of the Ene; by now, the man would probably know that there were two fugitives rather than one. But he didn't feel comfortable sharing the details with Murdoc.

"Friends in high-altitude places?" Murdoc was smirking again, as if he could follow every turn of MacGyver's thoughts. He probably wasn't too far off.

Mac pulled the dummy apart and let the horses at the hay. He'd stolen some grain from the Sandoval stables, but he wanted to save that for later; the mare would need it by the end of the day. He ran a hand along the gelding's flank, thanking it silently for its hard work.

Murdoc eyed the horses and cleared his throat. "Pity we can't eat hay ourselves. I don't suppose there's anything else available for lunch?"

"Not up here," Mac replied.

Murdoc cleared his throat again. "Well, if you're not planning on dropping me off a cliff, I suppose you're going to want some of those questions answered."

_I'd rather just listen to the silence. It's honest._ Pilar had mentioned Murdoc talking to himself in his cell. _I wonder if he tells lies even when he's alone?_

"Fine, MacGyver. I admit it. I haven't had a lot of practice at telling the truth. But I did promise. Ask away."

Mac remained silent. Several long moments ticked past as Murdoc fiddled with his makeshift crutch. Mac began to rub the horses down with handfuls of dry grass.

Murdoc cleared his throat again. "Anyone would think you didn't want any answers."

"Anyone would think I didn't figure I'd get actually them. Murdoc, you think I can't tell by now when you're lying?"

Murdoc looked at him inquiringly.

"It's real easy. Your mouth moves."

Murdoc sniffed and looked wounded. "You won't learn anything at all if you don't ask." He cocked his head to one side. "I suppose we could make it all yes-and-no questions – that way I wouldn't have to say anything, just nod or shake my head. Would that work better?"

"Probably not." Mac eyed Murdoc. "Okay. For a start, what did the Sandovals have against you? Who did you kill?"

"Carlos Sandoval," Murdoc replied after a long moment. "Felix' father."

"Oh."

"Yes, you can see why they'd feel a trifle put out. By rights, La Roja really should have thanked me for making her a widow, but she chose to take a sentimental attitude about the whole thing. And I didn't even make a dime from it. Dreadful mistake, but I'd do it again."

Mac threw up his hands, and the gelding whickered and stepped nervously. "_Why_?"

He didn't expect a real answer – flippant irony was the most likely, or another brazen change of topic. Instead, Murdoc hugged his knees and looked away over the wild landscape. Eventually, he answered softly. "Ashton's death."

"Your sister? But that was an accident!"

"Was it?"

"_Yes_. We investigated that too. Like you told me, she was skiing in Switzerland and got caught in an avalanche. It's tragic that you lost your sister, but it wasn't murder. If she _was_ your sister."

"Oh, she was." A bleak, wintry look washed briefly over Murdoc's face. "We had the same father – although – my mother wasn't married to our father. Ashton's mother was."

For once, the words had the ring of truth – when Phoenix had interviewed Ashton Cooke's mother, she'd been evasive on the subject of the missing husband, but insistent – even defensive – that she'd never had a son. Mac's head ached with wondering which part of which story was true. "Murdoc, your file said your parents were dead. _You _said your parents were dead. Which makes me think they're both alive."

"They're not."

"That was quick."

Murdoc shrugged.

"And I'm bettin' none of 'em was actually named Cooke."

"No. Ashton's mother – well, she went into hiding. From our father. When Ashton was a baby . . . it took me years to find them. By the time I did, I'd already – well, let's say I'd gone into business for myself by then. I made sure she was comfortable, but I kept my distance."

"I'll bet. Had you already been recruited by HIT by then?"

" 'Recruited'? What are you talking about?" Murdoc's eyes narrowed with a return of his usual sardonic edge. "Recruitment be damned. Nicholas and Sonja and I _founded _HIT. Really, it was my idea in the first place, although you could never get Nicholas to admit that."

"Your idea." MacGyver ran a hand along the gelding's neck, wishing he was alone with the horses. "Why am I _not_ surprised."

The clearing was silent for a few minutes as Mac finished grooming the gelding and turned to the mare.

"After all that, I rather miss Nicholas," Murdoc mused at last. "He had such a fine turn for the dramatic."

"Is that where you got it? Or did he get it from you?"

"Really, MacGyver. You make it sound like a disease."

"Maybe it _is_ a disease. You ever think about that?" MacGyver's hands had slowed down nearly to a stop in his grooming as his vision clouded. Underneath the seething disgust that lurched in his gut lay an molten vein of pure anger that hadn't diminished in the slightest in all the unplagued years of Murdoc's absence. Sensing his change of mood, the mare turned her head and nosed him, whickering her concern. Mac checked to make sure she was tethered securely and stepped away from her, looming over Murdoc where he sat, idly twisting a stalk of grass in the fingers of his one hand. "The sick games. The fancy traps. _Why?_"

He wasn't sure if he expected an answer or not. Murdoc wasn't looking at him any more; he was studying the grass stem in his hand. His fingers twisted and bent the stem, tying it one-handed into a slipknot. "It was too easy. Life is such a very thin thread, you know. Too easy to break." He pulled the knot apart and tossed the grass stem aside. "I had my pick of all the really interesting contracts – the truly difficult cases. The targets who think they're untouchable. Men of power and influence. Masters of the universe, lords of all they survey. They all want to live forever, did you know that? As soon as they make a little money and a few enemies, they get twitchy and wall themselves up. Alarm systems, armed guards, dogs, electronic surveillance and protection – all the immortality money can buy."

Murdoc picked up a pebble and tossed it over the precipice, hearing the faint rattle as it bounced off the rocks on its way down the mountainside. "None of it's worth a damn, you know. Every safety net has holes in it." He finally looked up as if only just remembering that MacGyver was there. "It doesn't take a particularly large hole. Even a pinprick – " he raised his hand and pinched his fingers together – "will do."

Mac turned away from Murdoc, trying not to let the revulsion break through his control, although he felt as if his skin was trying to peel itself away and crawl off into the forest, anything to get away. He stroked the mare's long, graceful neck, breathing deeply, and resumed the rubdown with a fresh handful of grass. She shifted from one side to another before she settled down, growing calmer along with him.

After a few minutes, Mac was pretty sure he could speak again without shouting. "Okay. So you say you founded HIT – "

"With Nicholas. And don't blame me for the ridiculous name and the idiotic acronym. It wasn't my idea."

"Sure. Right." Mac smiled faintly in spite of himself, but it felt like a grimace.

Murdoc rambled on, as if he was talking about trivialities instead of terror and death. "We did make quite a team. Sonja was the one who really made it work – brilliant woman. She handled the assignments and the payments, drummed up business, kept everything ticking along like clockwork."

"Y'know, you didn't seem to be that much of a big wheel when we crashed their party. You weren't one of the directors or anything – and you told me you just 'worked for them'. _And_ you were willing to turn them all in."

Murdoc snorted in contempt. "Oh, it all started to go wrong after the first few years. Nicholas succumbed to grandiosity. He wanted a piece of every pie – arms smuggling, drugs, money laundering – he blew the whole thing _completely_ out of proportion. We really should have stuck to contract killing. We were _good_ at it. But he got terribly testy when I told him we were overreaching. Started throwing my 'failure' in my face. When I figured I'd tidy up a bit – mop up you and Dalton along with Pete – well, that really didn't turn out to be a good idea. After that, Nicholas wouldn't listen to a word I said." He sniggered. "At least I had the last word."

MacGyver looked over his shoulder at where Murdoc sat, and spoke softly. "_For God's sake_, Murdoc . . . couldn't you have done something _else_ with your life?"

The insouciant mask was back. "Oh, any _number_ of things," he drawled. "But none of them would have been _nearly_ as much fun."

**"_Fun_**_?_"

Mac studied his own hand as he continued to tend the mare, focusing – focusing _hard_ – on the simple, familiar rhythm of the task. His knuckles itched at the thought of flattening Murdoc – anything to make him shut up – except that he didn't want to cut off the flow of information. _Too many questions. Too many things never made sense._ Even though everything Murdoc said was suspect, there might be some traces of truth in it. A lot of it did feel true – which made Mac wonder if he could trust that instinct at all.

Murdoc smirked as if he could follow Mac's train of thought, and began to speak again with a hint of deliberate malice in his drawling voice. "By the time I'd been – working – for a few years, I had more business than I could really handle properly on my own. And Nicholas – well, he was a fine strategist and a superb planner, but he was getting a bit long in the tooth for the really strenuous activities. With so much demand for our – let's call them 'specialised services', shall we? – Nicholas thought we'd all do much better if we farmed out the simpler jobs to – lesser talents. That way, I could stay a solo act, as it were. I've really never liked working with anyone else."

"Wait a minute. That first time, when you ambushed Pete and me, you had two goons doin' your dirty work for you."

"And doing it about as well as 'goons' ever do. Of _course_,they failed. Terribly annoying." Murdoc heaved a melodramatic sigh. "I really did want to get Peter off my tail, and in the end I had to settle for a faked death – that whole running-into-an-exploding-building routine, you know? Nicholas and I had agreed that we needed the DXS to declare me dead, but I had intended to take Thornton with me. He'd stopped being interesting and was simply a pest and a nuisance. And then _you_ had to show up and ruin it all."

"Sorry."

"Oh, no, you're not."

"Okay. I'm not." Mac had finished rubbing down the horses; he turned away from the mare again, his hands falling to his sides as he stared at Murdoc. "Murdoc, are you lyin' on purpose? Or is it a reflex? Like breathing? Or is the truth just plain too messy to remember straight? _You _dragged me into it."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I _didn't_ just 'show up'. _You_ got me involved. Especially when you stole Pete's car, and he had no choice except to chase you in the taxi I was drivin'."

"True, true." Murdoc didn't seem alarmed at MacGyver's scowl. He pursed his lips thoughtfully. "I'd meant you to be a simple witness, in case I couldn't get Thornton to pose nicely for the camera. But I couldn't resist a bit of – well, improvisation. You can understand that, can't you? Our dear Pete has always deeply loathed collateral damage. I knew it would make him squirm _so_ much more if he died knowing someone innocent had died with him. And then it all went _wrong_," Murdoc said crossly. "How was I to know I'd picked a busybody cab driver who was half Boy Scout and half Mr. Wizard? Any _normal_ person would have stayed out of trouble – watched from the sidelines, run off at the first sound of shooting and given a confused story to the police and all that. Easy pickings."

He scowled petulantly. "And you – you _got out_ of my beautiful trap. And you saved Thornton, too. I thought it was a fluke, until you did it again! _And_ again. What was I supposed to do? You _ruined_ me."

Mac stared at him for a long moment before turning back to the mare. "I hope you aren't holdin' your breath waitin' for me to apologise."

He hardly dared touch the horse. He was caught up in fighting himself, repressing the urge to throttle Murdoc. He'd had no way of knowing, at the time, just how important Pete would be in his life. Now he thought of the kindly, shrewd, extraordinary man who'd given him the clear road to a life truly filled with purpose, and a red rage nearly blinded him at the thought of both those lives being snuffed out.

Murdoc grinned at Mac's expression. "Are you reconsidering your decision about tossing me off that cliff?"

Instead of pounding Murdoc, Mac led both horses back to the stream, so they could drink their fill now that they'd cooled down. The bay was restive, tossing his head, sensing MacGyver's distress. The mare lifted her nose from the stream and nuzzled Mac, nipping at the flyaway ends of his hair. He rested his forehead against her for a long moment, eyes closed, until the worst of the sick feeling eased.

Mac tethered the mare where she could graze comfortably and turned to the bay gelding. He began to lead it back down the trail they'd climbed to reach the clearing. A couple of dozen yards or so, and he unbuckled the bridle and slipped it off, rubbing the gelding behind the ears affectionately. A fresh, clean breeze ruffled Mac's hair and the bay's mane as the morning wore on.

Mac looked out and away, down the rippling fall of the mountainside. The little stream was hurrying to meet the Ene, which ran north to the Ucayali, which would snake and wriggle across the landscape, finding its leisurely way to the upper reaches of the Amazon. They were barely two hundred miles from the Pacific, but they'd already crossed the watershed that divided the continent. Ahead of him stretched literally millions of square miles of wilderness; there were river valleys in Peru which plummeted from an alpine forest at the top to a tropical jungle at the bottom.

_Somebody called it the heart of darkness, didn't they? Why'd they think darkness has a heart?_ The real darkness was sitting behind him in the clearing.

Mac gave the gelding a hearty slap to its flank and urged it away from him, down the trail. "Hey, pal. There's way better grass down there. Why don't you go get yourself some? You've earned it." The horse tossed its freed head, briefly puzzled, then whinnied and ambled away, its long legs eating up the distance with their smooth stride. The hoofbeats faded into murmuring echoes.

MacGyver walked back up to the clearing and found Murdoc watching for him with alarm. He had hauled himself to a standing position and was leaning on the crutch, his face pale under the dirt and the beard. He looked from MacGyver to the mare where she was peacefully grazing.

"I dare say you'll get along a good deal faster without me." His voice was hoarse but controlled.

"That's _your_ style," Mac said shortly. "Calm down. The mare can carry us both."

He stood by the horse, running a thoughtful hand along its flank, watching the clouds ripple across the sky.

Murdoc cleared his throat nervously and began to talk again, almost at random. "Sonja was quite the horsewoman, too, you know. Dear, dear Sonja. It seems like a lifetime since I've seen her. How is she these days?"

"In prison. Thanks to you."

"Oh, that's right. I really should pay her a visit, you know. And Nicholas is dead, of course."

"Well, yeah – you killed him! With a little help from Sonja. So much for team spirit, huh, Murdoc?"

The reply was very soft and even. "He shouldn't have touched Ashton."

The clearing was silent for some minutes, except for the crisp sounds of the mare cropping grass, and the plashing of the stream. Murdoc lowered himself to the ground at the edge of the rivulet, carefully rinsed out Pilar's ragged shirt in the clear water, and began to rub at the crusted dirt on his face and arms, scooping water over his wild hair with his cupped palm. It was somehow reminiscent of a starved, mangy alleycat patiently grooming itself.

Mac had begun to gather up the other rags from the dummy. "So Ashton's mom left your dad. And your parents died. Who raised you?"

"Are you wondering if I simply crawled up out of a sewer? I lived with our father. Till I met Nicholas and got my – professional start."

Mac gave him a sour look, but Murdoc was dabbing at the scarred stump of his right arm with the wet rag, and didn't look up.

"Just how young did you start?"

"Oh, I was terribly precocious. Daddy Dearest was killed when I was only fourteen. But I was already on my own by then."

" 'Killed?'"

"Well, died. And no, _I_ didn't kill him." Murdoc squeezed filthy water from the rag one-handed and rinsed it again. "Although I could have . . . God knows he had it coming. Pity no-one offered to pay me for it."

"Okaay . . . " Mac swallowed and tried to think of a question that would keep Murdoc talking. "So what was your father's name?"

"Harold, of course. Our father, who art in heaven, Harold be thy name. Of course, he's certainly not in heaven. Far from it. Nor was his name actually Harold."

"_Murdoc_ . . . "

"Oh, relax, MacGyver. I'll get there. Just be patient. You have to admit, I haven't done too badly so far."

"I'm not admittin' _anything_ just now . . . "

MacGyver's voice trailed off. They had both heard, or felt, the same thing at the same time: the conviction of not being alone, the certainty of being observed. Mac should have felt angry when a gun materialised in Murdoc's hand – it must have been the guard's pistol, stolen all the way back in the hacienda's cellars – but he really couldn't spare any thought for that just now. He was too busy peering out at the surrounding bush, looking for the first signs of movement.

Half a dozen figures solidified out of the gloom of the forest: ragged camo and khaki clothing, dark hair and unmistakable _mestizo_ features, with a few pure Indian faces. They were all armed, and the leader was pointing a machine gundirectly at Mac's chest. Behind them, the shadows of more armed men: it looked like an entire column on the move.

A few barked orders in Quechua, and a shift into Spanish. It took a moment for Mac's ear to make the adjustment, after talking and thinking in English again for the last several hours.

"You will surrender yourselves to the jurisdiction of the Communist Party of Peru. Do not attempt to escape." The steady muzzle of the gun emphasised the order.

_Sendero Luminoso . . . Shining Path._

_We're dead._

- x -_  
_


	8. Dependent Clause

**Reverb**

_Eight: Dependent Clause_

- x -

_Sendero doesn't take prisoners. They never did the whole kidnap-for-ransom bit, not like the Colombian paramilitaries . . . and as far as Peru's concerned, there's only one reason for Americans to be rattling around on their turf. And it's a real unpopular reason. Even though the coca country's way north of the Ene River, up in the Huallaga valley . . ._

"Identify yourselves." The leader's words were clipped and his face was hard, the eyes hard and shining chips of obsidian.

MacGyver knew he was toast the minute he opened his mouth. His Spanish had become a good deal more fluent with the recent practice, but a few days, or even months, couldn't erase his American accent. He swallowed hard.

"_Me llamo Maq'_," he answered.

_Not good enough . . . _

The obsidian eyes turned to burning coal. "_Americano_," he spat. "_Narcopolícia? DEA_?" It was barked as an interrogative, but it wasn't a question. Behind him, more guns were unslung from shoulders; the cadre was beginning to look like a firing squad.

Murdoc's voice chimed in, a jarring sweetness in the breathless tension. "Oh, don't be _stupid_." His Spanish was flawless, the Peruvian accent unmistakable – Mac would have bet the contemptuous patrician drawl was identifiably Liman. "Does he _look_ like an anti-drug agent? Do I?"

Most of the gun muzzles pivoted to bear on Murdoc, lethal sunflowers turning to follow a new sun. Murdoc had pulled himself to his feet and was leaning almost casually on his crutch, gesturing insouciantly with the pistol. The leader's face grew even stormier; a word and a gesture sent one of his men hurrying over to Murdoc. The young _guerrilla_ pointed his FAL rifle at Murdoc's stomach with one hand and held out the other for the gun. Murdoc shrugged and handed it over.

"Identify yourself!" the leader repeated.

Murdoc glared at him. "I am _El Segador_," he announced with an air of grandeur. "Who the hell are you?"

Mac winced inwardly. How long had Murdoc been working in South America before he'd fallen afoul of the Sandovals? Long enough to get a reputation, and a nickname, it seemed. _The Reaper. Aw, man._

The commander's eyebrows lifted and he took several steps towards Murdoc, studying him with a thoughtful expression. "I'm supposed to believe that?"

"The Party has a thousand eyes and a thousand ears, comrade, or it used to," Murdoc said lightly. "What can I say? I grew bored with La Roja's hospitality. I dare say you'll hear about the details soon enough."

MacGyver had been making a fast mental inventory – very fast, since there wasn't much to tally. He was standing only a few feet from where he'd tethered the mare, still holding the bundle of rags from the dummy. The leader had shifted his gaze – and his machine gun – to Murdoc, but one of the other _guerrillas_ was keeping a rifle trained on Mac, and his attention hadn't wavered.

Mac scowled over at Murdoc and spoke loudly, in his unconvincing Spanish. He didn't want the kind of attention, or reaction, that speaking English would cause. "Are you kidding me? 'The Reaper'? Isn't that kind of ridiculous?" He took a step towards Murdoc.

"Stay where you are!" The shouted order came from the commander; the attentive _guerrilla_ didn't say anything, although his eyes glinted.

"Sí, sí, don't get excited . . . " Mac took a few hasty steps backwards, overshot the place where he had been standing, tripped over the rope that tethered the mare, and fell sprawling on the turf. The commander swore and several of the _senderistas_ laughed.

As Mac fell, he tossed the bundle of rags up in the air so that the scraps flew in all directions. When he'd tethered the well-trained horse, he'd used the easy trick of simply looping the rope under a handy stone; he tumbled over the stone, rolled, came to his feet holding the loose end of the rope, and dodged to put the mare between himself and the Shining Path cadre, praying that the animal would be too valuable for them to simply shoot her out of hand.

He threw himself at the mare now, grabbing desperately for her mane, urging her forwards and taking a few long strides before he attempted to leap. He got one leg over her back and started to pull himself up, keeping himself crouched as low on her neck as he could manage. She whinnied and tossed her head, and began to run.

A bony hand with a grip like a steel claw locked around his trailing ankle, and another caught at the cloth of his jeans, slipped, then regained a hold on his leg. For an instant, the sensation as the grappling hands began to climb his leg was weirdly and horribly familiar; but the climber was no inquisitive little girl. The weight of a full-grown man was dragging Mac sideways off the horse. Gravity swamped him and the ground rushed up to slam into him as the thunder of the mare's cantering hoofbeats pounded away and faded into diminishing echoes.

It wasn't just the ground hitting him. Mac wrapped his arms around his head for protection. He had landed hard, the breath knocked out of him, and he felt rather than heard the thump of heavy feet on the earth as the other _guerrillas_ caught up with him. Solid boots connected with his ribs and back, blows from the butt of a rifle rained down on his back and shoulders. He heard a cry of pain and realised it was his own voice.

Hard hands seized his arms, dragged him to his feet, shook him like a dog. The bands of light and shadow in the clearing, trees and rocks and sky, danced in wavering bands in front of his eyes. The confused, spinning images suddenly solidified into the monstrous black cavern of a rifle barrel pointed directly at his face. Behind the barrel, holding the gun, was the same man who'd dragged him from the horse, the _guerrilla_ who hadn't stopped watching him in spite of Murdoc's pantomime. The man's grimy finger was steady on the trigger.

The finger didn't tighten, and the face didn't change its steady, considering expression. From very far away across the clearing, MacGyver could hear Murdoc shouting.

"Idiots! Cretins! Brainless yammering _dogs!_ Can't you see what's right in front of your stupid faces?" Mac's confused mind was beginning to sort out the words again. He watched Murdoc limp and hobble forwards to face the Senderista leader, the crutch catching in the rough upland grass; he managed somehow to stay upright. Murdoc leaned into the man's face, gesturing towards Mac with the stump of his right arm. "How do you think I _got_ here? You know who I am, you know damned well where I've been these last years! _This man_ brought me here."

The commander shrugged. "So?"

Murdoc scowled. "You can't be that much of a fool. Not if you've still got your cadre holding together. How long has your precious Chairman been locked up, _comrade_? How long since your capitalist government made Gonzalo tell you all to lay down your arms?"

"He did not truly mean that." The commander's face blackened. "The dogs forced him to say that."

"Well, of course they did! And yet, _here you are_." Murdoc's voice flowed with honey, soothing and conciliating, then sharp and challenging. "You haven't _given up_, have you?"

"We shall _never_ abandon the struggle. The people – "

"Then don't be an _idiot_. Can't you see what you've got here? This man – " Murdoc gestured at MacGyver again – "walked into Hacienda Sandoval and brought out both of La Roja's prisoners. _Think about that_. He rescued María Suarez from Yanamayo Prison in 1989. _Don't you see_? You've got your hands on the only man in Peru – in the _world _– who can break Chairman Gonzalo out of prison!"

_That's just crazy . . . _even as the thought crossed Mac's bewildered brain, he could see the idea settling into the commander's mind.

Murdoc was speaking again, his voice now smooth and persuasive. "Comrade – I beg your pardon, you still haven't told me your name . . . ?"

"Terco."

"_Comandante_ Terco . . . " Murdoc laid his hand on the man's arm.

"Shut up." Terco shoved Murdoc in the chest. He'd had to release his hold on the crutch, keeping his balance simply by leaning on it; the push knocked him sprawling to the ground. He bit back a curse and a threat and lay there, his face darkening with anger.

Terco turned his back on Murdoc and gestured to the men who held MacGyver. They hauled him over and dumped him on the ground beside where Murdoc lay. Another gesture, and two of the younger men in the cadre took the place of the steady-eyed _guerrilla_ with the rifle, who followed Terco off to one side. The faint murmurs of a furious discussion could be heard.

Mac's head had stopped spinning, but the entire world seemed askew. "Murdoc, what the – "

"Shut _up_, MacGyver! I'm trying to save your life!"

"What?"

Murdoc's head snapped around to look directly at MacGyver. His expression was so malevolent, so nakedly violent that Mac drew back. He hissed. "If I don't get to kill you myself, I'm damned if I'll let this pack of yokels have the satisfaction."

Murdoc pulled himself to a sitting position, after a moment, Mac did the same, carefully. He set his teeth against the twinges from his bruised back and ribs, but he was pretty sure nothing was broken, not this time anyway. He glanced up at the two _guerrillas_ who were standing guard. They looked barely old enough to shave, but they were bright-eyed and alert, and standing too far away to be jumped. Beyond them, two more members of the cadre had joined in the excited debate.

_It was a pet saying of my mom's . . . 'running around like a chicken with its head cut off' – but it's a real phenomenon, a function of the autonomic nervous system. Cut off the head of some organisms, and sometimes the limbs and tail keep flailing for a while. Of course, chickens can't do much harm like that, but it's not confined to chickens. Without Guzmán – 'Chairman Gonzalo' – Shining Path was dead, but it didn't know it yet. It was still killing. Get the head back, and there'd be a bloodbath._

"Murdoc, this is _crazy_. No _way_ am I bustin' Guzmán out of prison."

Murdoc cocked an eyebrow. "I notice that you didn't say that you _can't_ do it."

"Doesn't matter if I can't. I _won't_."

"Don't let them hear you say that." Murdoc met the eye of one of the guards, smiled ingratiatingly, and slowly and carefully reached out to retrieve his crutch from where it had fallen. The guard watched him but didn't interfere. "It's just as well that the horse ran off – with this lot, I wouldn't put it past them to shoot it and eat it," he remarked lightly. "So tell me, MacGyver – if your little game had worked and you _had_ gotten away, would you have come back for me?"

Mac looked at him in surprise. "Seems to me I might've had a little trouble getting you away from your new buddies."

"Oh, for heaven's sake. You think I'd even be able to throw in my lot with them?"

"You were gettin' along with Terco there pretty well at first."

"Oh, that's just the reputation," Murdoc said airily. "I'm quite proud of my _nom de guerre_; it commands respect, after all."

"Enough respect to keep us both from gettin' shot?"

"Oh, well, that's up to you now."

"Me? _You're_ the one with the reputation!"

"Give it time." Murdoc grinned. "I've given you a good start, after all."

MacGyver gave him a sour look, then shrugged. "If it keeps them from killing us . . . and I'm still not sure it's gonna work . . . we're gonna have to get away somehow."

"All in good time. Survival first." Murdoc's eyes narrowed. "And after that – I _did_ promise La Roja a return visit. Pity these fine fellows can't pay me to go after her. That's the real problem with communists, you know. No money. They expect everyone to just volunteer."

"I wonder how they keep going . . . " Mac mused.

"Comrade Terco probably shoots anyone who tries to retire from the good fight. Speaking of which, here he comes. And his sharp-eyed friend as well."

Mac generally found it hard to guess the ages of Peruvians. The two _senderistas_ could have been any age between forty and seventy, which meant they were probably in their thirties, given the harshness of life in the Andes. Terco was all broad strength and massive will power, with heavily muscled arms and hands that looked strong enough to crush rocks for fun. He seemed nervous and agitated. The other _guerrilla_ would have seemed calm and easygoing, but his eyes glittered with a fierce intelligence and awareness.

Terco eyed MacGyver and Murdoc with smouldering doubt. "Xavier here thinks we should not risk losing such an opportunity. If it is one. If you are not lying to save your skins."

Murdoc began to answer, but Terco cut him off with an oath and a curt gesture. He was carrying Murdoc's pistol, which seemed dwarfed by his massive hand. He raised the gun deliberately and centred it on MacGyver's forehead. Mac sucked in his breath and grew very still.

"Is it true what this man says? You freed him from Casa Rojas?"

"_Sí_." There didn't seem any point in denying it.

"Why?"

Mac shrugged. "It seemed like a good idea at the time."

Terco's thumb cocked the pistol. The metallic snap sounded deafening. Mac felt a cold sweat prickle down his back.

"_Why_?"

"Okay, okay! I went there to rescue Pilar Velasquez."

"_La doctora_? _Porque_?"

Annoyance overrode Mac's fear. "Look, do I need a reason? She was kidnapped! Why _wouldn't_ I want to free her?"

"At the risk of your life, señor?" Xavier spoke for the first time.

Mac shrugged again.

Xavier laid a light hand on Terco's arm; the staring eye of the gun drooped and sank down to point at the ground. "They will be very unhappy today at Casa Rojas," the _guerrilla_ commented, with a sly grin. "It seems the _Yanqui_ has already helped us."

Terco threw him a sour look. "I will not let _anything_ slow us down."

Behind Terco and Xavier the two young _guerrillas_ were watching with amusement, nudging each other and pointing, their rifles hanging loosely in their hands. Terco suddenly spun on them, catching them off guard.

"Pablo! Did I tell you to stop watching the prisoners?" He handed Xavier the pistol and stalked over to the older boy, tore the rifle from his hands and knocked him to the ground with it. "And you, Julio?" He turned to the other boy, who dropped his rifle in terror. Terco beat Julio methodically; the boy screamed with pain but made no effort to evade the blows.

"Get up." The commander tossed the rifle back to Pablo contemptuously. "You're still on duty. Don't fail again."

He strode back to where Xavier stood. During the entire brutal altercation, the _guerrilla_ had not taken his eyes off MacGyver and Murdoc. Terco studied him thoughtfully. "Very well, Xavier. If he escapes, I will kill you. Understood?"

Xavier nodded calmly, as if they'd been agreeing on the lunch menu, and handed the pistol back to the commander. He gestured casually to Mac. "Get up."

MacGyver climbed to his feet, frowning. "What about – " He gestured towards Murdoc.

_The horse is gone. We're all on foot. How's Murdoc gonna keep up?_

Murdoc was getting his crutch planted, getting ready to haul himself upright. He was frowning also; he must be thinking the same thing.

Terco shrugged. "He's no use to us." He raised the pistol casually and pulled the trigger.

"_**NO**!_"

The shot hit Murdoc squarely in the chest and knocked him sprawling, the crutch slipping out from suddenly nerveless fingers. The stable-master's khaki shirt darkened suddenly and horribly.

MacGyver knelt over Murdoc, reaching for him to try to staunch the bleeding. Murdoc knocked his hand away with a curse that ended in a cough and a gasp of pain.

"_Idiot_. Do you think I can't tell . . . ngh . . . agh . . . and don't you go all wet on me and pretend it's any loss . . ."

MacGyver couldn't think. There was nothing to be done, no clever solution to the flood of crimson soaking Murdoc's shirt.

Murdoc smirked at him. "Just think. You'll finally be sure of me." An attempt at a laugh ended in a spasm of agonised coughing. "A damned feeble reward for virtue. The good guy wins at last . . . only you don't. More lovely irony. You'll never know now."

"Know what?"

"Oh, it's all been such beautiful irony. You saved my sister's life . . . and she died anyway. Another damned mountain. What is it about mountains? The Widowmaker – that was ironic too. We both lost there . . . " Murdoc coughed again and fumbled at his own chest, trying to find the source of the pain – ineffectively trying to reach right-handed in a freakish moment of forgetfulness. He blinked in confusion and tried again with his left hand, held up his own blood-drenched fingers for thoughtful study.

The ground underneath him was becoming hideously damp, a spreading dark stain on the dry earth.

"And the Widowmaker . . . that damned mountain staring us both in the face." Murdoc suddenly grinned, but there was no humour in his face.

"It's been staring _you_ in the face for years, MacGyver. You've been trying to solve it for years. But you didn't solve for _x_." He set his teeth against a fresh wave of pain. The grimace turned into another smirk and a horrifying giggle. "I'm afraid we won't have time for you to get the rest of your answers, MacGyver. Too bad."

"Is that all you can think about?" Mac's answer was soft and harsh.

Murdoc's face was screwed up in agony; bloody foam was seeping from his mouth. A dappled shadow from the surrounding trees made his face look scarred again. "_Damn_ you, MacGyver . . . I should have killed you when I had the chance . . . we've both lost . . . "

For a moment, the mirthless smile returned before it became a rictus of death. The malevolent spark in the eyes faded away into glassy emptiness, and the body went limp. MacGyver checked for a pulse.

Under his fingertips, he felt the thready heartbeat stop.

- x -

Nikki was sitting on MacGyver's couch in the cabin, shocked into silence. Night had long since fallen, and the fire in the fireplace had burned low again. She shivered.

"Mac – I'm sorry – when I said that about you watching Murdoc die and then burying the body yourself . . . I didn't know." She touched Mac's left wrist with a feather-light finger. After almost thirteen years, the faint white tracery of the scar was only visible if you knew exactly what you were looking for.

MacGyver stood up from the couch. He started to squat by the hearth to mend the fire, uttered a faint grumbling yelp, and sat down instead, rubbing at his right knee. Nikki watched him as he added fresh logs and coaxed the blaze back into a bright, cheery dance.

"You were a real mess when you came back from Peru that time. I remember. And even after you'd recovered, you never talked about it."

Mac stood up again, but remained by the fire, shoving a log into a slightly different position with his foot. "Nobody knew. 'Cept me. And Pete and Sam, eventually."

"But why? Why did you keep it a secret?"

He made a random gesture, the shadow of his fingers fluttering in the air, limned by firelight. "I'm gettin' to that . . . "

- x -

The days that followed Murdoc's murder were a haze. MacGyver had trouble remembering the details afterwards, and he wasn't sure he wanted to anyway.

There had been food: not very much of it, but the short commons and the hunger didn't come from cruelty. The _senderistas_ didn't carry much in the way of supplies – they commandeered food and shelter as they went, making their way along a patchy chain of contacts and connections. Sometimes the help was given at gunpoint, sometimes not; the demands on the _campesino_ households were kept at a bearable minimum, and they shared everything equally.

The first night, he'd been mocked as a 'Yanqui' when he was given the same slender ration as the others; they plainly expected a display of American greed. Instead, he accepted his portion with gratitude, and the mockery had stopped by the third day.

There had been pain: not very much at first. His ribs and back were a mass of bruises from the first pounding he'd taken when they'd captured him, but nothing had been broken. He took pains to be cooperative and unthreatening, and several days passed without a beating, until they caught him trying to escape from his bonds. Even then, Terco made certain he'd still be able to walk afterwards.

They'd bound his wrists in front of him with heavy wire, not so tightly as to cut off the circulation; but he soon rubbed the skin raw trying to slip loose, in the rare moments when he wasn't watched too closely even for that. The wire was too heavy and too tight to manage the repeated bending that would have allowed him to break it. It was too rigid to manage a release without tools, and he was repeatedly frustrated in his attempts to get hold of anything that he might be able to use.

The frustration rankled and burned in his mind, disturbing his sleep with nightmares of blind alleys and impassable canyon walls, and blood spreading in rivulets across the dry earth of the high mountains. They were headed north, and the jungle was growing thicker and more tangled even as the air grew thicker, damper, hotter. In the heat and sweat of the harsh days, Mac didn't recognise the onset of fever; with his mind already hazy, he wasn't sure when the infection first developed in the raw abrasions in his wrists. After that, the haziness grew worse as the pain overtook him. Xavier swore at him when he finally noticed.

There had been death: not very much, but anything was too much.

Wherever Terco was heading, he spent the first few days crossing some kind of established territory. Some of the villages were approached openly; in each one, the cadre settled in for the day and Terco held some kind of tribunal. Every village seemed to have a scapegoat ready to be offered up at the 'People's Court' – one man, found guilty of abusing his animals, was savagely beaten. That wasn't too bad. But in the next village, another man was found guilty of adultery and wife-beating. He was beaten with clubs and garrotted, his body tossed into the river instead of being buried. From the shuttered faces of the villagers, they expected nothing else from Sendero.

The next village was different. The _guerrillas_ approached stealthily and surrounded it in a smooth, practiced manoeuvre; Terco's men were used to working together, and were united by more than a simple fear of their leader's heavy fists. Terco demanded supplies for his men, but made no attempt to stay the night. The victim in this session of the 'People's Court' was a regional official who was tried for 'revisionist activities' and found guilty of unpatriotic behaviour – his real job, it seemed, was to funnel bribes back to the district government, and make certain the results of any election were as ordered.

He was beaten to death as well – Terco apparently didn't like to waste ammunition – and the village leaders were forced to join in. Not all of them seemed reluctant. The body was left unburied, a broken heap lying in the village square as the cadre moved on.

They had left Murdoc's body unburied, up on the mountain. Mac tried not to think about that too much. In the unreality of the surreal days and nights, the one thing that was never anything less than utter and simple fact was the knowledge that Murdoc was dead.

Xavier was swearing at MacGyver as he examined the lacerations on Mac's wrists. The wire had sunk deep into the swollen, inflamed flesh.

"_Idiot_. Why didn't you say something?"

"Would it've made a difference?"

Xavier shrugged. After a moment, Mac realised he had spoken in English. "Sorry – I mean, _perdón_ – "

"Don't worry, Yank." The reply came in English. "Just try to stick to Spanish, okay? It's safer. You'll spook people less that way."

Mac blinked, trying to clear the fog from his mind, and nodded. Xavier was scowling at him.

"Listen, Yank. You're no damned use to me if you're dead, _comprende_? And _I'm_ no damned use to anyone dead. If I cut the wire, will you give me your word of honour you won't try to run away?"

Mac's head swam. He stared at Xavier. "What if I did? Why should you trust me?"

There was a snap, and MacGyver screamed in pain as the heavy wire binding his wrists parted and sprang open. Xavier stuffed the wire-cutters back into a pocket.

"Only a man of honour would ask such a question in the first place." His hands were rough but competent as he packed the weeping sores with something cool and damp – Mac thought it looked like leaves, but his head was swimming and he couldn't be certain. "Do I have your word?"

Mac hesitated. Everything in him fought against making the promise; an insidious mental worm was trying to find a rationale that would save him from having to keep it. But the poultice on his wrists was sucking out the pain and the fevered heat, and for the first time in days, he felt like himself. He squashed the worm. He should have felt trapped, but instead he felt an overwhelming sense of relief that made him feel even more light-headed.

"Okay. I promise. I won't try to escape."

MacGyver looked around as Xavier tended his wrists. He hadn't been able to pay much attention to his surroundings for the last day or two – or had it been longer? He hadn't been aware of much besides the intense green – the dry terrain of the uplands, all browns and soft greyed tones, had given way to an hallucinatory riot of colour, walls of variegated greens: chartreuse and kelly, emerald and beryl and jade, spring green and grass green, sage and olive and apple and lime. It was morning, and they were on a steep hillside overlooking a lush river valley.

"Where are we? I know we've been heading north, but I've kinda lost track." He looked thoughtfully at Xavier's face. "Oh. Sorry. I bet you're not supposed to tell me, huh?"

"It is better if I do not."

There were bright spots dancing in front of Mac's eyes. He blinked hard and shook his head, and immediately regretted the shake as his stomach lurched. When the world steadied, the spots were still there: Mac realised they were butterflies, a gaudy polychromatic cascade riffling through the clearing. He wondered for a moment if he was dreaming again; but the pain in his wrists felt more real even as it diminished. His fingers were beginning to ache and throb, but at least he could feel his hands again.

"The guy I was with . . . up on the mountain . . . "

"Your friend?"

Mac's shoulders and back stiffened. "He wasn't my friend."

"Ah! Your enemy?"

MacGyver nodded.

"You were enemies for a long time, I think?"

Mac's mind drifted back across the years. All those years . . . Pete, friend and mentor, and Murdoc, the snake in the grass. It had all started together. God, he'd been so _young_. "Years."

Xavier nodded. "It can be very hard to lose a close enemy. Even harder, perhaps, than losing a close friend."

"He was my closest enemy," Mac said. He bit his lip. "They made me leave his body there . . . "

"You wish to go back and bury him, _amigo_?"

"Yeah." _After all those years. There's a body. If it doesn't just disappear . . . _"I need to."

Xavier had been bandaging MacGyver's wrists. He nodded again. "It is good, to see your enemies in their graves."

"Beats the alternative." Mac closed his eyes in a long moment of pain – not physical, not this time – before he looked around again.

Below them in the valley, the sun was searing its way through a thick pool of morning fog, and hints of a broad river were beginning to appear, all slow meanders and thick, dark, sediment-laden water. The slopes of the mountains around them were a patchwork of different greens: dark tangles of trees enlaced with vines, and broad open patches of lighter vegetation, hundreds of acres of bushes the slightly yellowish green of a cabbage.

Amongst the bushes lay dark logs of felled trees, cut down to leave room for the lower-lying plants. In some of the older clearings, the logs were falling apart, rotting into humus, the old forest feeding the new growth. The cleared hillsides ran on under the sun, dappling the mountainside with patchwork blocks of light cabbage green amongst the frenzy of darker or brighter shades.

Mac's memory snapped into focus.

_Not clearings. Fields. Plantations._ _**Coca**__._

_Acres and acres of coca . . . that's gotta be the Huallaga River._

_Aw, __**man**__ . . . _

_What the heck is Terco doin' here?_

- - x - -

_Note: I have the most amazingly wonderful readers -- I'm **very **appreciative of how careful you've all been not to leave spoilery things in your reviews to date. So, just guessing that some of you might possibly want to make spoilery comments (or cuss me out, or gloat) -- please feel free to contact me directly through my LiveJournal email: lolmac [at] livejournal [dot] com (that's a regular email address; no need to belong to LJ yourself). _

_I'd love to hear from you. Even if it's cussing._

_- Beth_


	9. Dangling Participle

**Reverb**

_Nine: Dangling Participle_

- x - _  
_

It should have seemed strange for a blind man to pace or stare out the window; but Pete wasn't entirely blind, and he wasn't exactly staring. Sam watched him pacing back and forth between the overstuffed furniture covered in shabby chintz and the window of the hotel room in Tingo María. Outside, dawn had climbed the ridge on the eastern side of the river and reached a languid arm of lemon-yellow light into the valley of the Huallaga, but the sun wouldn't begin to punish for a few hours yet. The breeze from the river blew away the mosquitoes and flies, and cooled the humid air.

In the scrupulously clean, modest room, Pete only had eight steps to count between the chairs and the window. After the first day, he'd known the location of every item in the 'executive bungalow suite'. By the third day, Sam was considering either arranging for them to move to a different hotel room, or rearranging the furniture just to give Pete some means to distract himself.

As hotels went, the Oro Verde was the best Tingo María had to offer; electricity was usually available until midnight, the showers had hot water more often than not, and the local bribery scale was modest. Sam didn't miss the ostentatiousness of the hotel in Lima, and effective government surveillance sure wasn't a problem where there was no effective government.

A tangled shock of tall grass nudged the edge of the scrupulously manicured lawns of the hotel grounds; beyond it, the rain forest loomed. The wall of the forest was netted with a complex lacework of spiderwebs, sequinned with dewdrops, glittering in the early morning sun. The windows on this side of the hotel framed the exotic view and let in a growing chorale of insect noises and unidentifiable bird calls. The other side of the hotel faced a more authentic view of Tingo María: the cleared land where the ancient forest had been hacked back to make room for settlement and plantations, and low-lying weeds were crowding into any unguarded space between. Chickens scratched in the dusty street beyond the hotel's grand front drive, and the ubiquitous _moto-cholos_, three-wheeled rickshaws pulled by motorcycles, buzzed back and forth. Many of the buildings in the town showed irregular splatches of heavy paint where _senderista _graffiti had been painted out. Even the overpainting now looked faded and weathered – the threat had retreated, but few people had enough confidence and energy to repaint the walls afresh.

Sam hung up the phone at last, and Pete stopped pacing and settled into the other chair with an impatient snort that Sam knew wasn't actually directed at himself. The phone line couldn't be secured, so anything sensitive in the twice-daily reports from Phoenix headquarters had to be rendered into code; but Sam knew the codes well enough by now that he could decode most of it even as he transcribed.

He was still astonished at what he was learning about the scope of Phoenix' operations. Maybe the familiarity had helped him fool himself; he'd been 'hanging around' the place for five years, after all. He'd thought he knew plenty about what went on.

And Pete's easygoing friendship with Sam's father made it way too easy, in turn, to underestimate the wide-flung web of interest and influence that fanned out from the solar-panelled glass tower in LA. At any given moment of any day, the apparently jovial Pete was sitting on information that could destabilise half a dozen governments, ruin important reputations, wreak havoc, make heads roll – or not. Information to be considered, correlated, used carefully or stored up against future needs. The journalist in Sam had been fighting a losing battle for days over the seduction of secrecy. Some of this stuff really _wasn't_ fit for public consumption.

Sam looked carefully at Pete's face before he started reading him the first report, an update on the problems facing the Vietnamese boat people in Hong Kong. He frowned. Pete's attention hadn't settled down yet.

_Two weeks._ The thought hung between them in the humid air.

Sam tossed the report onto the coffee table, stood up from his chair, paced to the window himself and stared out at the verdant explosion. Behind him, Pete cleared his throat.

"Your father's disappeared before . . . " _but he's __never__ been missing for this long._

_Two weeks._

Sam fiddled with the cord of the blinds. "No peevish messages from the Board about how it's high time you came back to home base. This time."

Pete snorted. "Why do you think I've been letting you handle the morning calls? You hardly need the signals practice. But Ernshaw's still at the point where he's only willing to Express his Displeasure to me directly."

Sam threw Pete a grateful look. In the growing misery of the last two weeks, he'd held on to the certainty that Pete wouldn't give up and go home until they had word of MacGyver.

Pete cleared his throat again. "Sam – I know it's been hard on you. Stuck in a hotel room for days on end with a testy old man, while Michael runs all the interesting errands . . . "

"Mike knows the country," Sam broke in. "I'm only just learning it." He grinned. "All those travel guides about how much to tip. Why don't they publish guides on how much to bribe?"

"_Sam_ – "

"Of course, the real expertise is in knowing who'll stay bribed, and for how long. I'm learning a lot this trip. It's funny, Pete. During our road trip, I got this impression early on that Dad was this total straight arrow – the first time I saw him _bribe_ someone, I thought I was dreaming." _And the first time I saw him turn the charm on a lady . . . _but Sam didn't want to think too hard about that.

"And it's not like I haven't done _any_thing. Oh, before I forget, I've got another couple of 'appointments' this evening." Sam hadn't been idle during their enforced stay. He'd struck up a friendship the first day with a local motorcycle dealer, and for the last ten days he'd been running a covert side business in motorbike repair. Sam's skills had found an easy market, particularly amongst the drivers of the_ moto-cholos_.

"Are they buying the sob stories about your grumpy, tight-fisted boss?"

Sam turned and exchanged a wicked grin with Pete. "Oh, it sells about as well as ice cream on a hot day. I have to keep track of what I tell 'em, though. Any good story has to be repeated. A lot. Of course, then I get to hear _their_ stories in return."

"Anything promising?"

"Maybe – and not just gossip about who's coming and going. Like you said, it seems folks talk pretty freely in front of _moto-cholo_ drivers." Sam gave Pete a suspicious look. "How did you know about that?"

"Easy enough. I've driven taxis in a dozen cities in the Soviet Bloc – well, back when there _was_ a Soviet Bloc, and I could drive without risking life and limb. It's a very good cover for making a contact. And people _do_ forget that the driver can hear them."

Both men stiffened at the knock on the door, then relaxed as the knock turned into the correct cadence. It was the right signal. Sam got up and opened the door to Dr. Pilar Velasquez, with Lupe Rodriguez trailing after her like a determined shadow – a suitable shadow for early morning: she was half a foot taller than Pilar.

Pilar no longer looked quite as skeletal as when Sam had first seen her two weeks before. He and Pete had hardly reached Huánuco when the impossible phone call had come – MacGyver had done it again, had found and cracked the heart of the puzzle when anyone else would have still been looking for missing pieces. Pilar had been exultant and terrified, and Pete had refused to let her stay in Huancayo or come to join him on her own. Michael Thornton had been sent to fetch her, returning with Lupe as well as Pilar, both women overflowing with their unlikely stories.

Pete's effervescent delight at the swift rescue went down in flames when he learned who else had been rescued. As the days passed and MacGyver didn't emerge from the back country, with or without Murdoc, his mood had become grimmer; the unending flow of work from Phoenix headquarters offered only a slender distraction. Sam had been astonished at first at Pete's ability to switch his focus onto each problem in turn, to absorb and retain the galaxy of details, then to move cleanly on to the next. It took him a few days before he recognised that it was Pete's way of coping as well as his way of working.

As the two women swept in, Sam settled himself onto the couch to be out of Pilar's path. In spite of everything she'd survived – or maybe because of it – she was still a dynamo, active and outgoing. Her energy was one of the reasons she was working with Phoenix; she had come to them with her proposal to rebuild and expand the network of clinics in Peru's outlying areas, where medical services had been reduced or destroyed during the insurrection. She had persuaded a sullen board that the risks were manageable, charming the uncertain and browbeating the hesitant, and instantly endearing herself to Pete with her ability to skewer the bureaucrats with her uncompromising, pragmatic determination. Lupe was almost as bad; between them, they scattered the soporific weight of the tropical atmosphere, heavy with humidity and the underlying anxiety.

Pete had risen to embrace Pilar, although they were closer to equal height when he was sitting down. "Everything okay? No more delays or cancellations?"

Pilar beamed. "No, no, no; no more delays. The plane left on time, your son got up on time, Raquella was there on time. All very on schedule. Almost English."

"What about Dr. Urteaga? He didn't call at the last minute and decide he wouldn't come?"

"I think he has accepted that it is safer to come here than to stay away. It means a great deal to him, that you are sending your own son to escort him. And he knows Raquella, so he knows it will not be a trap." Dr. Raquella Salazar ran the clinic in Tingo María, but had readily agreed to set aside her work and help Pilar. Moreover, she already knew Michael; Pete thanked heaven all over again for the web of association and friendship that held the country together when everything else fell apart.

Lupe flung herself down on the couch next to Sam – right next to him; her thigh in its faded jeans pressed against his. Sam slid over to give her more room. Lupe slid over in turn. Sam tried to catch her eye, but she was bent forward, watching Pilar talking to Pete, apparently oblivious to Sam's discomfort.

"Peter, I have something very important to tell you. While Raquella is gone, I shall go to her clinic and take her place."

"Pilar! Not in public – the danger – we can't afford to risk losing you again _now_!"

"Shush! I love you all dearly and I owe you my life, but it is time I returned to my work. I shall be surrounded by people there, and I shall be able to do some good." Pete scowled and turned away, but Pilar followed him over to the window. "Is this not what you intended? This is why Phoenix agreed to support my work. Raquella's clinic here, mine in Huancayo, Jorge Urteaga's surgery in Huánuco. Why should we stop now? The danger was always there, even before – even before all this happened to me."

"We can't guarantee your safety."

"_Guarantee_?" Pilar pointed out the window. "Beyond those trees lies the Rio Huallaga, my friend. There are no guarantees of safety anywhere in my country, least of all here."

It should have been odd, pointing out a view to a blind man; the river wasn't even visible from the window. Neither Pete nor Pilar found it odd.

Pete gritted his teeth. "What if Esperanza Rojas sends goons to shoot the place up?"

"Or blow it up?" Sam broke in. He could see that Pete didn't have a prayer of winning the skirmish.

"That is not her style. And what good would it do her? She will know, soon enough, that Jorge Urteaga is on his way here. She may guess that he is bringing the documents."

"But didn't you say she knows what's in them?"

"Of course she does! I told her myself, all that I knew." Pilar shivered; for the first time since she had arrived, she seemed to shrink. "I told her everything except for Dr. Urteaga's name."

Pete's scowl melted from his face. He placed an arm around her shoulders. "Pilar, your courage is an inspiration to all of us."

"I thank you for saying that." She hugged him back. Her voice was very soft. "But it was not truly courage. I knew once she had his name, that he was dead. And I was dead. Sometimes, in that cellar, I wanted to be dead, but I did not want to kill Jorge. He is a good doctor and a good man."

"A good man? He dumped this on you and nearly got you killed. And then he bolted. It's taken us days to find him."

"I never said he was a strong man." She straightened her back, seemed to grow in stature again. "MacGyver did not only save my life. He risked his life for my _freedom_. If he does not return . . . he _will_ return, I am sure. But – I must not waste my freedom, Peter." She glanced over at Sam. "I see that there is still no news."

Sam shook his head. Lupe wrapped an arm around his shoulders, but this time he felt comforted instead of pursued.

"That man, Murdoc – I'm sure he would not kill Señor MacGyver . . . " Lupe didn't sound unconvinced. "Not after MacGyver rescued him . . . risked his own life to save him . . . " She looked from Pete and Pilar to Sam and back again desperately, longing for reassurance.

Pilar bit her lip and looked at Pete as well, but there was none of Lupe's hopeful optimism in her face.

Pete sighed. He knew that Pilar had a razor-sharp nose for lies, especially pleasant empty lies meant to soothe; he guessed that Lupe was the same. "You don't know Murdoc. Nobody does, really . . . except MacGyver. Maybe." Pete squared his shoulders. "If anyone can make it out of there alive, it'll be Mac. We just need to wait a little longer." He sighed and sat down again, reached out an unerring hand to where his coffee cup rested. "Meanwhile, my board is making sure I don't have to take up knitting to keep myself occupied."

"Are they making it difficult for you to stay here this long?" Pilar asked.

"Nothing I can't handle."

"In other words, yes."

Pete smiled, although his eyes were determined and hard. "I reminded them that I haven't taken a decent vacation in two years, and I hadn't had a chance to see my son for almost that long. Then I reminded them that I still get regular offers from other groups for everything from consulting jobs to sinecures, and they decided that they could live with the situation for a while longer. Speaking of Michael, do you have any idea why he didn't want me to see him off this morning? I was all set to go down to the airstrip, but he said not to bother. As if it's a bother!"

Pilar and Lupe exchanged unreadable glances. "Perhaps he did not wish to trouble you? I know he is very proud to be able to help you in this small way."

"If he's finally able to get Dr. Urteaga back here, _with _those damned documents, it won't be 'small' at all."

"Jorge – you understand, Peter, he has been badly frightened. After I disappeared, he was certain he would be next. That is what happens. He has lost his nerve, and I do not think he will regain it. It would be good for him if he could leave the country after this, find some place where he will feel safe."

"Fine!" Pete threw up his hands. "I'll be only too happy to make any arrangements he likes. Just as long as he doesn't decide to disappear on us again. If Michael and Dr. Salazar come back empty-handed after all this . . . "

Pilar gave an enigmatic smile. She met Sam's eyes, and saw that he'd recognised the one thing Pete still hadn't noticed. "You, my friend, do not know our Raquella. She can be – very persuasive. Very determined, when there is something she truly wants."

"No kidding? She seemed pretty shy the other day, when Michael introduced us. How long have they known each other?"

Sam saw that Lupe was about to start snickering, and broke in hastily. _He's been so worried about Dad, he hasn't figured it out – or even noticed._ It was the first time he'd ever been a step ahead of Pete Thornton._ Better enjoy it while I can. I bet it won't happen again anytime soon._

"Pilar, if you have to do this clinic duty, will you promise to take Lupe with you? And Lupe, I expect you to call in regularly and let us know everything's okay. Every three hours. You got that?" Sam looked at Lupe severely, and she snatched her wandering hands back and clasped them demurely in her lap.

"_Sí, sí, señor Maqito_. Every three hours. I shall call you up and bore you and complain that I am bored."

Sam slanted a half smile. "I'll make it worth your while."

One flawless dark eyebrow tilted up. "Ohhhh?" Her eyes glinted wickedly.

"Pete's bringing in one of the Phoenix helicopters – it's being sent out to the Galapagos Islands, but the expedition's been delayed for a month, so we get it in the meanwhile. It'll be here tomorrow. I'll ask the pilot to let you have a good look, maybe take you up and give you some pointers – " his words ended in a squashed huff as Lupe launched herself at him, flattening him against the back of the couch. Her face was radiant with delight.

Pilar sighed, shaking her head as she turned back to Pete. "And I once hoped she would study medicine. Why is she so crazy about those stupid machines? Well, better she bothers your Phoenix pilot than the Army pilots. She takes such crazy risks sometimes. She drives me mad."

"I know the feeling," Pete muttered.

- x -

After Pilar and Lupe had left, Pete settled back into his chair.

"Sam."

"Yeah?"

"Next time, don't sit on the couch. Try one of the chairs."

"What?"

"You need to make it a bit harder for Lupe to corner you. You have to think ahead."

"You _saw_ that? Wait a minute . . . "

A blind man shouldn't have been able to witness that tiny farce; a blind man's eyes shouldn't twinkle like that. "Or you could try telling her you're engaged, although I'm not entirely convinced that'll stop her."

"_Pete!_"

The shrill jangle of the phone broke in, sounding much like the harsh birdcalls from the fringes of the forest outside. Sam picked it up quickly, anxiously. Pete read the shift in his shoulders and head and knew it was neither good news nor bad, and guessed that the call had nothing to do with MacGyver at all.

Sam held out the phone. "It's Helen. She's got an overseas call she wants you to take personally."

The conversation was in Russian, and Sam didn't understand a word of it, but Pete looked more and more grave as he continued. Finally he rang off.

"It's spreading. Faster than I thought."

"What?"

"What? I'm sorry, Sam. News – or rumour – that was Andrei Ogienko, a friend of mine in Saint Petersburg." _Not Leningrad. Not any more._ "The rumour's already reached the Russian underworld."

"Rumour?"

"They've heard about Murdoc. They've heard he's on the loose again."

"Man, that was fast."

"Yeah. The Russian Business Network has already put out feelers for him."

"Do they want to hire him, or kill him?"

"Hard to say. Andrei didn't know. What's bothering me is how fast the word's gotten out." Pete chewed his lip. "If only we'd been able to put HIT out of business completely when we had the chance. I couldn't believe how soon they were operational again – even with Helman dead and Sonja Chapel in prison."

Pete pulled himself out of his chair and began to pace again. "I wonder . . . this could be a whole new opportunity. We could never get Sonja to cooperate with us – but with her help, we could shut them down for good. They're a lot more vulnerable right now."

"HIT? Vulnerable?" Sam was leaning forward in fascination.

"You better believe it. HIT has been under siege for the last few years, mostly from the Russian mafia. They made some serious missteps in eastern Europe after the Wall fell, and they've been losing ground ever since. And never mind any bright hopes about 'the enemy of my enemy' – when the bad boys start fighting each other in earnest, nobody wins."

"But where does Sonja come into it?"

Pete turned away from the window. "She's terrified of Murdoc. She's got plenty of good reasons to be, too. And once she hears he's at large again . . . " Pete looked over at Sam. "How much of Murdoc's file did your father show you?"

"Um . . . way more than I had clearance for . . . you _knew _about that?"

"Not officially. Unofficially? Why do you think your father had those files with him at home that week? Under standard operating procedure, he wouldn't have been allowed to remove them from the building in the first place. He'd have busted himself for the security breach."

Pete could see enough of Sam's astonished expression to smile in spite of himself.

Sam shook his head in bemusement. "Y'know, Pete, the whole thing always sounded so fantastic. It's hard to believe it's real. Or that Murdoc's real. You and Dad have talked about him enough, but he still seems like the bogey-man."

"I wish he _was_ just a wild story. Like I said, you don't know Murdoc. Every time we think we've learned something solid about him, it turns out to be wrong. Your father found out a few years back that Murdoc's entire file was faked – everything the DXS had ever been able to dig up on him."

"No kidding?" Sam was leaning forward again.

"Yeah. It was all somebody else's past. Murdoc had stolen it – filed off the serial numbers and pasted it onto his own life. We never did find out anything about his real history." Pete's face had drawn itself into sharp angles. Sam realised that, for whatever reason, Pete took the failure personally. "We only found out about Murdoc's sister because Murdoc actually told MacGyver – and that piece of information didn't lead anywhere." Pete sighed. "Your father's been worried for years – speaking of vulnerability. Murdoc's always had a real taste for the leverage of a collateral threat."

"Collateral?" Sam looked blank, then almost laughed. "You mean _me_? You thought he might come after me? Just to get at Dad? Get serious!"

"I am. Deadly serious, and I do mean 'deadly'. When you turned up and your father suggested going off on a nice long trip . . . it wasn't just because he needed the time off, Sam. We had no idea how well you'd be able to handle yourself. Not really. Not if you became a target. The least he could do was keep you close and make you both into moving targets."

Sam ran a pensive thumbnail along the arm of the couch. "And neither of you said anything about it at the time . . . Pete, you're not actually _afraid_ of this guy, are you?"

"Who wouldn't be?"

"But you and Dad have beaten him – how many times?"

Pete shook his head. "It never really matters what happened last time . . . as long as there might be a next time, that's the one you have to worry about."

Sam's eyes suddenly widened, and he half-rose. "You were talking about collateral threats – Pete. _What about Lisa_?"

"Relax. I've had someone keeping an eye on her since Pilar brought us the news. I don't think there's any real threat in that direction, but I didn't want to take a chance."

Sam let himself fall back into the chair heavily. "Aw, _man_. Now I know why Dad's hair is going grey like that." He picked up the report he'd set aside only a short eon before, and tried to breathe a bit more deeply. He realised he was sweating, although the room was still fairly cool.

Pete settled back into his chair. "Back to the grind, then. Sweating over reports, and waiting. I'll be glad when Michael gets back and we can start sweating over Dr. Urteaga." He reached for his coffee cup again.

_Yeah, sure. We'll both be sweating over that. But only to distract ourselves from sweating over Dad._

- x -

MacGyver should have been sweating. It was probably a bad sign that he wasn't.

It wasn't just the sultry heat of the day as the sun climbed high enough to become brutal. Terco had flown into a rage when he and his men returned from their foraging expedition and found Xavier had freed Mac from his bonds. Terco in a rage was a walking explosion all on its own, Mac thought, not an incendiary bomb like your typical crime boss, or a ticking time bomb like Murdoc had been. Although Murdoc had been more of a deadly toxin than an explosive . . . Mac shook his head, trying to clear it. His imagination was running away with itself, heading off into strange places.

"I _told_ you, Xavier! I warned you!" Terco had planted the muzzle of his rifle in the middle of Xavier's chest and was leaning against it, hard enough to make a dent; but Xavier wasn't flinching or backing down.

"So? He's still here, isn't he?"

"For _how long_?"

The shouting match became louder, the Spanish faster and more colloquial, and Mac could no longer understand it. But he could see that Xavier wasn't budging, and felt lightheaded with relief. The argument ended; Terco turned and shouted to the other men, and Xavier gestured to Mac. They didn't speak again as the cadre moved out, farther along the Huallaga valley.

- x -

The day seemed hazy, although the sky was clear. Mac's mind drifted as the long miles piled up, one heavy footfall after another. His hands were swollen and his wrists still burned. When they stopped for the night, Xavier looked at the lacerations and shook his head dolefully as he renewed the dressing.

"You should be drinking more water, _amigo_. Help your body fight this."

Mac didn't look at his own wrists; he didn't think he'd like the sight. "You think it's gonna make much of a difference?" He spoke in English, not really caring if he drew hostile attention, too tired to hunt through his brain for the words in Spanish.

Xavier began to reply, but Mac interrupted.

"Xavier . . . you're gonna end up having to kill me. You've gotta know that. 'Cause there's no way I'm gonna set Guzmán loose on the world again."

"Shhh!" Xavier scowled at him furiously. "_Estúpido_. There are others here who know English. Terco understands English very well, even though he refuses to speak it."

Mac pushed his lank, filthy hair out of his eyes with his right hand; the left hand hurt too much to use. "I can't figure you out," he blurted. "Can't you see the whole idea's crazy?"

Instead of growing angry, the other man merely shrugged. "It gives Terco something to believe in. Something to keep going. As long as Terco believes, the others will follow." He eyed MacGyver narrowly. "It would not be good if they had no-one to follow."

"How about you?" Mac was studying the _guerrilla_ thoughtfully. "How long've you been with Shining Path, anyway? Sorry – I mean, the Communist Party of Peru."

Xavier actually grinned, crooked teeth flashing in his dark face. "Long enough. I joined the Party years ago, when I was at university."

"Huh?" Mac looked blank. "You went to college?"

"Of course. Many students joined. We thought it was the only thing we could do to make our country into a better place." Xavier's face became bitter. "My father worked his whole life to send my brothers and me to school, and then to university. I was a good student. We all were. We worked hard. And by the time I was a year in college, I knew it meant nothing. It was the university in Junín – the provincial capital – we could never have afforded the grand university in Lima. And we had no connections, no fine relatives. My mother was _mestizo_." He shrugged again. "Revolution _was_ our only hope."

"Do you still believe in it?" Mac asked softly. "The Revolution, overthrowing the corrupt capitalist regime and all that?"

"I believe in nothing."

"Everybody's gotta believe in something."

Xavier smiled again, but there was no warmth in his eyes. "I believe that one day, the sun will become a nova. On that day, the fires of heaven will burn every last trace of life from the face of this planet, leaving clean ash and sterile rock naked under the sky. After that day, all injustice will end and there will be no more evil in the world."

The sudden tropical night was sweeping in. Under the tangle of the forest canopy, MacGyver could no longer see Xavier's face clearly. "Sleep while you can, _amigo_. Tomorrow we move on."

- x -

The next day's march was shorter, and when they stopped in late afternoon, MacGyver was aware of the excitement and tension rippling through the cadre like a strong current. He tried to listen in on the rapid conversation, to pick up some idea of Terco's mission, but his mind felt soggy with exhaustion. He was grateful for the early stop and the chance to rest, and sat with his back against a tree, looking dully out over the river at the endless cabbage-green smears of the coca fields. The plantations along this stretch were even larger and more lush than they had been at the southern end of the river valley.

He was only distantly aware that most of the band had vanished, leaving only Xavier guarding him again. With the leaden fatigue dragging him down, Mac felt only a twinge of the inner struggle. The incessant surveillance had eased, and for two days, nothing but his promise had kept him from bolting into the jungle or jumping into the river . . . escape, or die trying, before some new twist of the trap closed in on him. Although the river wouldn't be a good choice, not with open wounds. He wondered briefly if there were piranha along this stretch of the Huallaga – there had been fish with the evening rations for the last two nights, but nothing he'd recognised, and he'd have recognised piranha. He hadn't had much appetite; he'd given most of his ration to Julio, who always looked half-starved.

"Xavier." The _guerrilla_ looked at him sharply. He'd been gathering leaves again, from whatever plant he'd been using to treat Mac's injuries. "About that promise of mine . . . what if we both just walk away from here?"

"Maq." Xavier shook his head. "You make it sound so . . . simple."

"Why not?"

The answering shrug had become a familiar sight. "Where should I go?"

"There's gotta be _something_ – "

"My friend, I am not an angel. I have done many, many terrible things. If I believed in sin, the list of my sins would be written on the walls of Hell in letters of fire. Don't you understand?"

"No." Mac held out his bandaged wrists as Xavier squatted down in front of him. "Not really."

"We have no faith but the Party, my friend. Religion is for the masses. The capitalist dogs use it to grind the people down. This is all I have. If I go back to the world where God rules instead of Chairman Gonzalo, I will be damned for my sins."

"Isn't there any room for redemption in that gloomy outlook of yours?"

Xavier didn't answer, only lifted MacGyver's right hand and began to remove the bandages.

"How much longer do you think you'll live? Are you just gonna let that list get longer?"

Xavier shook his head. "_Amigo_, I have not only done evil. I have _enjoyed_ it. If I have a soul, it has grown shabby and worn. I do not regret the deaths of corrupt officials or fat capitalist landowners."

He studied Mac's right wrist and nodded in satisfaction; the raw ulcers had scabbed over and the swelling was down. "You think they should all live, don't you? You would spare even the monsters?"

"Maybe I don't believe in monsters." Mac thought briefly of Murdoc, and shivered. In spite of himself, he reached down to the patch on his jeans where the coppery-brown stain of Murdoc's blood still lingered.

Bad move. With Xavier holding his right arm, Mac had tried to use his left hand, and even that small movement hurt.

Xavier saw the pain hit MacGyver. He caught at Mac's left arm and turned it over – not roughly, but Mac flinched and let out a strangled gasp as the jolt of fire burned its way up his arm.

A long, angry line of dark red had snaked up MacGyver's arm from the wrist to the elbow. A faint exploratory thread was already beginning to climb higher.

Xavier sucked in his breath. "_Dios_."

- x -

MacGyver had fallen into an uneasy sleep, disturbed first by shivering and then by waves of heat. The sound of the _guerrillas _returning roused him out of a miserable dream of fire and dark red hissing snakes. He had barely opened his eyes when a massive dark shadow loomed over him. A huge hand yanked him from the ground, slammed his back against a tree, locked on his throat and began to squeeze.

"Bastard son of an _Americano_ devil! Slave of a _pishtaco_! I should have killed you when we first found you!"

Terco's rage was far beyond the merely explosive; he was a raging volcanic eruption now.

"What did you do? How? We _failed_!"

"What the heck are you talkin' about? _No comprendes!_" Mac managed to get his feet underneath him, trying to stand up instead of being held against the rough bole of the tree like a squirming puppy.

"The dynamite! My men made no mistakes. They know their jobs!" The iron hand squeezed tighter, and Mac choked. "_Nothing!_ No explosion. The dynamite never went off! _What did you do to it_?"

"I never touched the dynamite!" That was true enough and easy to say. If nothing else, Shining Path knew how to handle and use dynamite: the supply had been in the packs of Diego and Amaro, two of the oldest and most experienced of the _guerrilla_ band. Both men were hard-bitten and watchful, and MacGyver had taken pains never to go near them.

The blasting caps, on the other hand, had been in Julio's pack, and the boy had slept soundly on a full stomach. It had taken only a dab of carefully placed mud in each fuse-initiated blasting cap to make sure the flame from the fuse would never reach the primary explosive. And there was plenty of mud in the river valley.

"Liar! Get out here where I can see your face!" The hand at his throat loosened. MacGyver swallowed and choked, trying to breathe deeply. Terco released his grip, only to seize Mac by the arm and yank him away from the tree, out into the clearing where the wash of light from an almost-full moon was nearly as bright as a street light. The calloused fingers sank into Mac's inflamed left arm – he had peeled off his shirt when the fever had spiked, and the hammerblow of pain knocked him to his knees. Diego and Amaro were standing close by, watching, and Mac heard malicious laughter and spiteful remarks.

He felt his head clearing with the surge of adrenaline. He caught himself with his right hand as Terco's shove sent him sprawling. The big man advanced on him, face contorted with rage, brandishing a tree limb he'd picked up from the ground. Mac stayed low until Terco had swung his arm back, committing himself to the move, then pushed off from the ground, half spun, and caught the commander full in the gut with a roundhouse kick. As Terco staggered back, Mac ran at him, wrenched the club from him and stepped back, panting, waiting for the next charge.

It didn't come. Xavier leapt forward, pulled the club out of Mac's hand, turned to Terco. To MacGyver's surprise, Diego and Amaro had stepped in and were holding the leader back. Xavier shouted in Terco's face.

"Enough! We fight amongst ourselves, La Roja laughs, nobody wins."

Terco glared and wrenched his arms free. "Did we come so far for _nothing_?"

"What are you talking about?" Mac knew he should keep his mouth shut, but the question was out before he could stop himself. "You mean Esperanza Rojas? What's she got to do with anything?"

Xavier met his eyes. "Maq, you must know where we are."

"Well, yeah. We're somewhere in the Huallaga valley, and we're sitting in the middle of a bumper crop of coca. From what I've seen, it's harvest time." He couldn't have kept the disgust out of his voice even if he'd felt like trying. "The pickings seem pretty thin back in Junín – I figured you came up here to try and get a cut of the drug money."

"Not just any coca. These fields belong to La Roja."

"You got something against her?"

At that, Diego spoke – Mac realised he'd never heard the man speak. His voice was harsh and ragged, and dripped with hatred. "Who does not?"

Mac felt the world starting to swim again. "You're gonna mess up the harvest?"

"To hell with the coca harvest!" Terco spat. "The shit grows like weeds. You can't get rid of it."

Xavier shook his head. "Not the fields. We came here to destroy the coca sheds and the processing pits."

Mac stared at him.

"That is what will truly hurt her. She cannot afford such a setback – the greedy bitch has been trying to hold onto her husband's power, but he was the one who handled all the money. Half the _narcos_ in Peru had him helping them, hiding their money overseas. Since he was killed, she has lost ground – she needs money or she will be broken. She pledged her share of the coca harvest and used the money to expand the processing grounds. We came here to blow the whole thing up."

In spite of the danger and the folly, Mac's mind went racing away like an untrained puppy after an enticing scent, assembling a swift, entrancing mental inventory of what the coca processing sheds must contain. _Sodium carbonate, kerosene, sulfuric acid, hydrochloric acid, potassium permanganate,_ _ammonium hydroxide_ . . . the chemical names flowed through his brain like a Latin chant, every syllable deeply significant. His imagination danced frenetically, ricocheting between all the possible combinations of the industrial chemistry set so close to hand.

Terco was glaring at Mac, a fanatic light in his eyes.

"Xavier, look at him. Look at his face. What are you thinking, _Yanqui_? You know something? _What do you know_?"

Terco raised his FAL rifle. The dark eye of the muzzle glared at Mac, baleful and remorseless.

MacGyver met its stare with a tired expression. The twinge of fear that crawled up his spine felt very distant. "You're not gonna do that. You need me alive."

The muzzle dipped and the deadly eye steadied on Mac's right knee.

"That'll just make it harder on your men. You planning on carrying me?"

Terco's own eyes gleamed. "True." The muzzle lifted again and swung around, and the black cyclops eye turned its hungry stare to focus on Xavier's heart.

"So. If you do not help us . . . I will shoot _him_."

Mac set his teeth against the wave of ice that washed over him. _Damn you._

- - x - -


	10. Complex Compound

**Reverb**

_Ten: Complex-Compound_

- x -

The envelope didn't look all that impressive, lying on the coffee table in Pete's hotel suite: an ordinary manila documents folder, thick but not bulging, held shut with red string. The envelope was crumpled and creased, the paper was grubby and the edges had become worn and tattered. There was a faint stain of something, probably machine oil, darkening one corner. Dr. Urteaga had stashed the folder in his untidy garage for several days, until he'd grown too nervous to let it out of his sight.

He was still too agitated now to settle down, and paced aimlessly around the room. He was a miserable sight: dark circles underneath bloodshot eyes, a constant tic on one cheek, the sagging look of a face that had recently lost flesh. He had flinched noticeably when he'd been ushered in, looking from Pete to Sam in alarm. "_Perdón_, Señor Thornton – I - I thought we would be alone . . . "

Sam thought it must take a special kind of jumpy to mistake _him_ for hired muscle. He tried to think of it as a kind of backhanded compliment, but it didn't work. Instead, he heeded Pete's nod – he hardly even needed the signal – and removed himself from the room, joining Michael Thornton and Raquella in the hallway, leaving only Pilar to go over the documents with Pete while Jorge Urteaga twitched and climbed the walls.

Michael gave Sam a sympathetic look. "Sorry about that . . . I didn't think he'd actually kick you out."

Sam shrugged. "Your dad's got that new toy to play with, and it wouldn't take much to make Jorge-Porge run away again. The poor guy's scared of his own shadow." The helicopter pilot who'd flown the Phoenix chopper in from Lima had brought Pete a present straight from Willis' laboratory, a new gizmo for reading documents. It involved focussed lights and a set of adjustable magnifying lenses, and Sam hoped it wouldn't mean even worse eyestrain.

"Do not blame him," Raquella said earnestly. "His own shadow could hide his murderer."

"Michael – " Sam hesitated, then pushed forward. "Are you okay about all this? Me workin' with your dad like this, I mean." _Instead of you._ There, he'd asked.

Michael blinked with surprise. "Um, yeah. It's fine." He shrugged. "I can't, after all. And – well, you're going back to the States after this. And I'm not. You know that." He picked up Raquella's hand and interlaced his fingers with hers, grasping tightly.

"Then would you please tell him soon, okay? It's getting real awkward. You're not scared of him, are you?"

Raquella looked at Sam in surprise, then rounded on Michael. "What? Your own father, and you haven't spoken to him yet?"

Michael looked sheepish. "I will, _cara_. Soon. _Te prometo._"

"You had better! It will not be good if _I_ have to ask _your_ father for _your_ hand."

- x -

Pete's hands were steady and his movements precise as he set each document under the magnifying viewer and skimmed through the contents, occasionally asking Pilar for help in translation. "Yeah. Oh, yeah. This could raise one hell of a stink . . . so, Dr. Urteaga. Your patient – "

"Guillermino Valdivieso Riquelme."

"Um, yeah. He brought you the packet and asked you to hide it, and turn it over to the authorities if anything happened to him. Two days later, his body was found floating in the Huallaga, with half a dozen bullet holes in him." _And you didn't go to the authorities. Instead, you dragged Pilar into it, got her kidnapped and nearly got her killed._ Pete's hands didn't shake even though his buried rage was approaching the volcanic. He couldn't afford blind fury on top of the literal blindness. "You were – " _a pathetic coward_ – "uncertain who to approach, so you contacted Dr. Velasquez and asked for her advice." He glanced dourly at Pilar. "You _should_ have called _me_ at that point, not gone haring off on your own, asking questions and drawing attention to yourself."

Pilar met his eyes steadily but sorrowfully. "I know, Peter. And I am sorry. If I had known that Guillermino's brother worked for Señora Rojas, I would never have been so careless."

Pete examined the next document, a fax from the Cayman Islands confirming a transfer of offshore funds that made his eyebrows twitch. Urteaga hadn't shown the entire packet to Pilar – he hadn't even dared to look at more than the top few items in the bundle. _Ignorance isn't bliss, it's suicide._ "I'm betting that the brother – "

"Ezequiel."

"I'll bet that Ezequiel intended plain ordinary blackmail . . . or maybe he hoped to leverage himself into a higher position in Señora Rojas' organisation. Whatever he intended, he didn't play his cards very well. Are you sure it was Rojas' men who killed him?"

"For that, we can only guess," Pilar answered. She was looking over a transcript of one side of a particularly candid telephone conversation, frowning at the bad handwriting and the casual obscenities peppering the page. "The body had been badly mutilated, and most of the damage was inflicted ante-mortem; with that much torture, I am sure they had all Ezequiel's secrets from him by the time they finally killed him. The corpse was left beside a well-travelled road, with a placard beside it – the usual sentiments: Death to Traitors, Long Live Chairman Gonzalo. It was signed '_Sendero_ _Luminoso_'."

"But you're certain it wasn't Shining Path."

"The _Partido Comunista Peruano_ always signs its notices with its initials – PCP. Never 'Sendero'. And I am quite certain that every _senderista_ knows how to spell 'Gonzalo' correctly. No. In such a case, it is usually assumed that the murder was done by the Army."

"It probably was." Pete's face was grim as he studied another document. "That damned woman's got more irons in the fire – " his mind shied violently away from where that image led. "She's got a piece of the Army in one pocket, part of the government in another, and half a dozen chunks of the global organised crime network up her sleeve." He set his jaw as he picked up the next item in the stack, a massive order for a list of chemicals that Pete recognised: they were used in the processing of coca leaf.

He had to keep his mind clear, to absorb the details of the situation so he could make decisions, plan effectively, think strategically. Much as he would have liked to round up his troops and storm the castle – or at least drop in on Hacienda Sandoval with lots of firepower and a few direct questions – it was information that added up to real leverage. Never mind that the Peruvian back country had swallowed MacGyver without a trace; never mind that the odds of Mac's survival plunged farther with each grim day that passed. This packet of documents might hold the answer to where MacGyver was, and why he hadn't returned. Pete had to find out.

And if these documents had killed his best friend . . . well, he'd find that out, too.

- x -

_The wrist bone's connected to the arm bone, the arm bone's connected to the shoulder bone . . ._

MacGyver eased his left arm in the sling that Diego had helped him rig. There wasn't much they could do about the pain – although he had his doubts about just what was in the bitter, astringent tea Xavier kept bringing him to drink – but the sling did make him more comfortable as he worked. For now.

He knew what that evil red line creeping up his arm meant, of course. _Topical infection's connected to bacteremia, bacteremia's connected to __lymphangitis, lymphangitis is connected to septicemia . . . _and so on. How far from real medical care were they, anyway? Even if Terco would let him leave, let him try to get help, risk letting him slip out of the death-grasp of Shining Path . . . once this long, hot, strange day was over, maybe he'd ask. Assuming he didn't muddle the ingredients in his current chemistry set and blow himself to pieces. Or say the wrong thing and provoke the increasing agitated _guerrilla _commander into shooting him.

It was surprising, how quickly his status in the Shining Path cadre had changed. Somehow, he'd jumped from the bottom of the pecking order very nearly to the top. When food appeared, it wasn't any more plentiful than before, but it was presented with no sense of mockery or grudging reluctance. And when Pablo had brought Mac his shirt, it had been sluiced out in the river and was almost clean, still slightly damp and badly wrinkled. Putting it on had cooled the fever-heat for a few minutes, and helped his head clear. He needed it clear.

_They've been growin' coca in Peru for, oh, about a thousand years at least. It's not illegal there – it's part of the culture. There's a mild buzz you get when you chew the leaves – okay, yeah, I tried it on my first visit. It's real effective against altitude sickness. Really burns the mouth, though. I didn't like it._

_They don't process it into cocaine here. They never have. There's a whole labyrinth of raw pits and ramshackle sheds near the plantations where the coca leaf is turned into a kind of paste – then the paste is flown out of the country, mostly to Colombia, where they do the final processing and turn it into refined powdered death. _

Another useful thing about Mac's change of status – when he told the _guerrillas_ he needed something, he got it. Where they were getting some of the stuff, he didn't know and figured it was better not to ask. The chemicals must have been stolen from one of the processing compounds, of course. As for the rest of it – Jefe, a tall young man who always seemed to be woolgathering and was never allowed to stand a watch, turned out to be one of the finest scrounges Mac had ever met. He'd been coming and going steadily since before dawn, and was responsible for the hacksaw and the tinsnips, the sandpaper, the screw-top jars and the sackful of empty IncaKola soda bottles, the pieces of plastic piping, and most of the collection of odd pieces of metal that Mac was currently sorting through. Copper and brass wouldn't work at all, steel was out; tin would do and aluminum was best of all. _Just where the heck did Jefe find a speed fairing from a Cessna? Better not ask. Better not even wonder._

"Okay, Diego. What we really need is metal shavings – " he wasn't sure he had the right word, and held up an imaginary pinch to show how small he meant. "Like you get if you – " he couldn't think of the Spanish word for 'drill', and doubted he'd ever heard it anyway. Basic Spanish really didn't cover the kind of things he usually needed to say. He looked over at Xavier.

"Drill a hole?"

"_Taladrar un agujero_."

"_Gracias_." Mac turned back to where Diego was waiting patiently – a day ago, Mac would have sworn he had about as much patience as a grenade. "Like you get if you drill a hole. Do your best and get the pieces as small as you can. Fill each jar up to here." He held up one of the glass jars and pointed to a level most of the way up.

"How many do you need?"

"We've got six of these jars. I would like to use them all."

The _guerrilla_ smiled, his teeth broken and crooked in his sunken face. "The more we have, the more La Roja weeps and curses tomorrow?"

"You got it." Mac turned to the row of plastic jugs and buckets Diego and Amaro had brought him from the chemical stores of the processing sheds, mentally sorting out which was which. He was pretty sure they'd pulled their raid on one of the smaller satellite operations, leaving the big complex belonging to Esperanza Rojas undisturbed – for now. He was pretty sure they hadn't killed anyone in the raid. He had to make himself be content with that.

_Even making the base coca paste involves a bunch of nasty chemicals. And it's not like they're all that careful with them. When they sluice off the stuff – which happens a couple of times in the process, with different combinations of poisons – it just runs downhill, into the watershed. The Huallaga's connected to the Marañón, the Marañón's connected to the Amazon . . ._

_My first visit to the Huallaga valley, I remember seeing folks with a stumbling, almost spastic way of walking – when I saw their faces, I realised it was manganese poisoning. It damages the central nervous system, and leaves this fixed expression on the victims' faces, like they can't look any more to see what's being done to them._

_And then there's the others – mostly men, old before their time, skinny and bent like twisted alpine trees, with reddened eyes and patchy skin and coughs that never go away. That's from the kerosene in the processing pits, the pozos. The green leaves get dumped into the pozos, with water and sodium carbonate and kerosene poured on top, and then pounded. If the pozo is big enough, they just climb into the pit and stomp. The fumes from the kerosene climb up into their skin and eyes and lungs. Labour's real cheap out there. Life's even cheaper._

"Now, this stuff won't explode, but you have to be careful. Make sure your hands are dry before you touch it, and wash them well afterwards." Pablo nodded earnestly, his dark eyes round as he studied the metal can half-full of fine white crystals that Mac had handed him. "Don't let any get in your mouth, you got that? You'll know if you do – it doesn't have much of a flavour, but it's very sweet. You'll notice it right away."

"Is it poison?"

MacGyver laid his good hand on the boy's shoulder reassuringly. "Better not take any chances. Just be careful." He handed Julio the worn white cotton T-shirt and the sheaf of scrap paper that Jefe had found for him, and waved the two boys away. "Get busy, now."

He'd been aware all along of Xavier's keen eyes watching him, studying and absorbing everything he was doing. When he turned his head, he saw the sardonic smile and knew he was busted.

Xavier spoke quietly, in English. "Very slick. You never told him even one little lie."

"Well, I coulda told him that it's a slow poison."

The _guerrilla_ grinned. "Is there a reason you're not telling him it's ordinary white sugar?"

Mac didn't answer. Xavier's degree had been in biology, not chemistry, and he'd hoped that would help shield him from discovery. _Guess not._

Xavier's face settled back into a noncommittal mask, his blank expression showing nothing of his thoughts. He'd looked like that for most of the day. "True, if you let anyone learn just what you are doing, and how, then they could do it again somewhere else." He shrugged. "These chemicals are very common. They are easy to steal."

"Maybe I don't wanna be remembered as the _gringo_ who taught you guys a whole buncha new ways to kill people."

"Nothing is remembered here, my friend." Xavier's eyelids half shuttered, hiding his gaze. "There is no yesterday for us. No tomorrow, either. Not any more."

_The worst part is that the farmers don't really want to have anything to do with it. They'd rather not grow the coca at all. The crop's easy to grow, and it brings in good money. But they don't like it._

_They don't really care about what the stuff does to unimaginable strangers in faraway countries – they figure nobody there cares about them, after all, and they've got their own troubles. But right here at home, along with the money, the coca brings hard-eyed men with dead eyes and twitchy trigger fingers. It brings violence and corruption and death. The growers would rather grow just about anything else, but they get shot if they try. Or worse._

_That was the project Phoenix was working on when we got chased out of the country a few years back – working with the farmers on alternative crops, setting up transport so they could get it to market, making sure they had a place to sell it for enough to live on. Then the government reneged on its pledge to help them, and our people were butchered by Shining Path. It just about killed Pete to have to give up._

- x -

The usual morning mists had burned away and the day was getting hot, and most of the _guerrillas_ who weren't actively helping him had found patches of shade for _siesta_. Mac shucked out of his shirt again, easing it off from underneath the sling. His arm throbbed. Xavier brought him a chipped mug with yet another decoction and glared at him until he drank the entire thing. This one was even more bitter than the others had been, but by the time he'd finished it, he felt a bit better, and the angry sense of intractable thirst had eased.

He'd noticed a tremor in his hands the day before; it was still there today, and getting worse. There was nothing for it but to ask Xavier to pick out a couple of men with steady eyes and hands, and resign himself to handing off another task.

There was a familiarity to all this – working with an ad-hoc team, unskilled but enthusiastic: some perplexed, some curious, some skeptical, some only interested in results. His mind, scampering in a dozen directions at once, casting about wildly and peering into every cranny, lining up and sorting through the possibilities. The biggest challenges never stymied those scrambling, excited innovative reflexes: the broader and more impossible the task, the more ways he could find of approaching it. Especially when there were other people around, people willing to help instead of just stand around and gape in confusion. Even though the helpers tended to gape too, all the way through.

Only this time was completely different. No casual teaching here, no peppering his instructions with comments about the laws of physics, or the reliability of chemical reactions. No private glow of joy at the elegant, infinitely flexible pragmatism of science. Instead, he was doing anything and everything he could to hide the simplicity and confuse the details, to make the straightforward processes seem elaborate and intimidating. _Reproducibility of results is the backbone of the progressive advancement of overall knowledge via the experimental method . . . _MacGyver could hear the dry, precise voice in his memory, but couldn't remember which professor it had been. _A boring one._

He'd had them bring him a supply of every chemical from the processing stores, including machine oil and cleaning solvents, even though he wasn't planning on using the ammonium hydroxide at all, and the sodium carbonate was fairly stable, although he could think of a few fun tricks even with that. Before he'd given Diego's crew the task of rendering the selected pieces of aluminum scrap down into shavings, he'd made a show out of picking through the hodgepodge collection Jefe had assembled, testing various items with a length of steel pipe he'd magnetised, making the selection look much more complicated than it actually was.

Mac glanced up as Xavier returned, and swallowed hard. Here was another difference. One of the two men with him, Sinchi, was an Asháninka Indian. There were three in the _senderista _band; Mac had no idea if they were there willingly or not. Sinchi was short and compactly built, and his coal-black eyes revealed nothing. Mac wasn't sure he even spoke Spanish.

The other man, Raoul, Mac knew far too well. When he'd made his best attempt at escaping, four days after the _guerrillas _had found him on the mountain ledge – well before he'd given Xavier that promise – he'd been handed over to Raoul afterwards. The man had a steady eye and hand, all right: he'd been methodical and vicious, and clearly angry and disappointed at the order not to inflict permanent crippling damage.

Mac took a deep breath and told himself that his ribs really _didn't_ still hurt from the beating. It had been – how long? A week, two weeks? He wasn't sure. Only faint greenish smears remained of the massive dark bruises, and the black eye and split lip were gone, leaving only the memory. The memory wasn't nearly faded enough.

There was nothing for it: he handed Raoul and Sinchi the big plastic jug of hydrochloric acid and Jefe's sack of empty IncaKola soda bottles, and explained how much liquid he needed in each bottle and how to seal them afterwards.

"Find a place to work where there's a breeze to carry off the fumes," he instructed. "This is nasty stuff."

Raoul held up the jug and studied it, a nonchalant smirk on his face. "_Sí_. Very . . . 'nasty stuff', as you say. The base coca paste has to be dissolved in dilute hydrochloric or sulfuric acid in the second phase of processing, so that the potassium permanganate can be added to force precipitation of the unwanted alkaloids." He met MacGyver's eyes and bared his teeth in a mirthless, carnivorous grin. Mac felt his stomach curdle. _So much for foolin' anyone._

"Fun and games." Raoul hefted the jug. "If it were up to me, I'd grab a few of the _traquateros _and simply pour the acid over their fucking heads. That would send a good message. Very clear."

He stalked away, Sinchi ghosting along in his wake.

MacGyver's heart was racing as if he'd been running a marathon, but the sweltering day suddenly seemed icy. He gripped the edge of the rough worktable they'd set up for him, trying to force the shaking to stop, feeling a splinter from the mangy wood digging into his palm. He was shivering as if an arctic breeze had slammed into him.

There were almost too many possibilities, too many choices. MacGyver looked at the collection of chemicals in front of him. _I could just about grab any two at random, dump 'em in the same container, and get a reaction. If it didn't burn or sizzle or explode, it'd release toxic gases._

_When I was a kid, one shining Christmas my dad gave me my very first chemistry set. I can't remember anything else that happened that whole winter; the only thing that mattered in the whole world was that Mister Einstein Little Chemical Laboratory – okay, really it was a Lionel-Porter Chemcraft set, but that's not what my mom called it. Especially when I started out, Christmas afternoon, by immediately blowing up a perfectly harmless shoebox._

_My grandpa didn't say much about the bangs and flashes, just, "Careful, Bud. It's a lot easier to knock things down than to build 'em up again." But a couple weeks later, in the middle of a lesson on fly-tying, he told me all about dynamiting fish. In gruesome detail. I got the message._

_Harry was right, of course. It's funny how I ended up spending way more time learning how to keep things from going boom – bomb disposal is all about taking apart the puzzles, seeing where someone's urge to destroy is going, and stopping them from getting there. I didn't like the military and I didn't like Viet Nam, but I loved the work and the challenge and the feeling that I could save lives by thinking my way to safety – safety for me, my buddies, and whole villages of innocent people._

_Creation oughta be easier than destruction. How come it's harder?_

"I _mean_ it, Terco. You want to really hit La Roja where it hurts? We'll take out the _pozos_, the sheds, the storage facilities, the works. She won't know what hit her. And she won't be able to bounce back, not with the mess we'll make. But you've _got_ to get all the people out of the processing area. No killing, you got that? _Sin matando. Comprendes?_"

Terco met his look stolidly. Mac braced himself for another round of roaring, another attempt to overwhelm him through sheer volume and implacable anger.

Instead, Terco nodded, a single chop of his head. "Sí."

"What?"

"There will be nobody in the _pozos_." Terco turned his back on MacGyver and strode away.

Mac watched him stride away. He felt oddly deflated.

"That was too easy."

"You can trust him, _amigo_. This time. He has no wish to kill the farmers or the workers." Xavier's mouth quirked with a trace of a smile. "Five years ago, Amaro was with a column who forced the _traquateros_ to agree to pay the coca farmers a higher price for the leaf." Xavier gave Mac a sidelong look, as if he expected to be met with scoffing disbelief, but Mac only nodded. He'd heard about it before – Shining Path had gained the loyalty of much of the coca region by supporting the farmers against the _traquateros_, the smugglers – mostly Colombians – who ruled the coca trade and called the shots. The honeymoon had ended in the ever-escalating cycles of senseless violence.

"Of course, as soon as Chairman Gonzalo was arrested, they broke their word." Xavier smiled cynically. "So now Terco will call a tribunal and remind them of their broken promises. Every farmer for miles around will be there, and every worker in the _pozos_. Whether they wish to come or not."

Mac swallowed. "Is he gonna kill them? The _traquateros_?"

Xavier shook his head – not in reassurance but uncertainty. "I do not know. I have known Terco for years, but I do not know him any more." He watched MacGyver eased his arm in its sling and turned back to his chemistry set. "He means to break you."

"He might not have enough time." Mac wrestled with the lid on a plastic tub of potassium permanganate.

Xavier's eyes narrowed as he watched Mac measure out the dark purple crystals. "_Amigo_, you should rest."

"In a bit."

The _guerrilla_ had been squatting comfortably in the shade; now he rose, drew close, leaned over Mac's worktable. His voice was soft enough to be almost lost under the chatter of birdcalls from the forest. "Maq'. What are you planning now?"

MacGyver hesitated, biting his lip, then showed him the project he'd been quietly working on since the first load of supplies had arrived in the early morning. At the bottom of each permanganate container had been a small deposit of purple residue – permanganate powder. He'd been adding to it all morning, carefully grinding small amounts of the chemical crystals to dust.

Xavier nodded thoughtfully as Mac explained, the fingers of his good hand flicking in the air as he described what he had in mind.

"You are sure this will work?"

"Nope."

For the first time all day, Xavier's mask cracked. The grin was warm and genuine, although his words were sobering. "Terco won't like it. He still doesn't trust you – he won't let you anywhere near the place." The bright grin clicked off into solemnity.

Mac met his eyes levelly. "I wasn't planning on tellin' him till afterwards."

The eyebrows climbed. "Afterwards? There will be an afterwards?"

"Well, yeah." Mac's eyes narrowed. "What, were you thinking I was gonna blow myself up? Or bolt?"

Xavier nodded. "No, no. I should know you will not. You cannot." He watched as Mac examined a fresh sheet of sandpaper for contamination, and carefully began to crush a small supply of the purple crystals.

Mac's fingers moved slowly and delicately, and not just because the stuff was tricky to work with. It wasn't only the permanganate that might explode at any moment.

"So. What can I do to help?"

Mac's hand stilled and his eyes flicked up to Xavier's. A slow smile spread over his face. He still felt weak and drained and stretched to the cracking point, but the air had grown suddenly fresher and easier to breathe.

"Or must I sit here all day and be bored while you have all the fun?" Xavier added.

"Fun?"

"You just admitted that little pile of rocks could blow up in your face at any moment. What could be more fun than that? I suppose you won't share that joy, will you?"

"Nope, but it would help if you'd take care of the aluminum." Mac gestured with his chin to a bucket of empty aluminum food containers. "If you burn those, the paper will burn away and you'll get little balls of metal in the ash. Grind them up . . . carefully."

"Maq'." MacGyver looked up, frowning; his head was swimming again and it was an effort to focus. Xavier was digging into a pocket.

"You can use this, perhaps." Mac caught the item one-handed, mostly by reflex, as Xavier tossed it; it took him a moment to realise it was his own Swiss Army knife.

- x -

The _guerrillas_ appeared just before sunset, materialising out of the jungle like messenger spirits from the old Inca kings. Each _pozo_ was visited by a pair of armed _senderistas_ with implacable eyes and a curt summons. Each group of workers was chivvied away at gunpoint by one of the men, while the other lingered for a few minutes.

As Raoul left the processing shed, he turned back and fired a single shot, then barked a harsh command at the workers ahead of him, who had jumped at the sound of gunfire. They hurried away, down the path that led to the big clearing near the airstrip, not far from the river, where the tribunal would be held.

In spite of Maq's reassurances, Pablo had flinched when the deliberately aimed bullet hit the propane tank and pierced it just above ground level. But the _Yanqui _had told the truth: there was no explosion, no fire, only the hiss of escaping gas and a faint, almost sweet smell that made his nose wrinkle.

Pablo worked quickly. He took out the folded paper packet full of the white crystal substance that he'd prepared so carefully. A long twisted wick of clean white cloth from one of the T-shirts dangled from it. His instructions were clear and easy to follow. He set the packet on the ground between the propane tank and the _pozo_ where the coca was steeping in its reeking mixture of kerosene and water, then pulled out a soda bottle half-full of clear, oily-looking liquid and worried out the cork stopper. The chemical smell hit him, a sharp sting, burning his nose. Thank the Blessed Virgin – no, he wasn't supposed to think that – thank Chairman Gonzalo and the Glorious Revolution that he was a soldier, not a farmer or a slave of the _pozos_, and he didn't have to breathe that shit all day long.

Maq' had insisted that the bottle had to be set so it was higher than the packet. A chair, a box . . . Pablo found a plastic bucket, upended it, settled the bottle securely on top. He fed the loose end of the cloth wick into the end of the soda bottle, and made sure it was submerged in the liquid and that the wick ran true down to the packet. That was it: he'd done his job. He was part of the great blow they would strike against the Red Witch, the evil hand of the oppressor. The other soldiers of his cadre were playing their parts, planting more of these marvelous devices in every processing shed in the area. He picked up his rifle and hurried away downhill, to rejoin his _compadres_ as they prepared for Terco's tribunal.

Behind him in the shed, the sulfuric acid in the soda bottle climbed smoothly along the clean cotton cloth of the wick, followed the inevitable call of gravity down to the paper packet of white sugar. The acid hit the sugar and began to smoke, the paper swiftly charring as the heat built up. Around the packet, the leaking propane pooled invisibly on the ground and spread, a remorseless trickle of heavy gas dribbling into the processing pit to sit uneasily on top of the pool of kerosene.

Shadows crowded into the empty shed as the sun slid below the horizon and the swift tropical night began to fall. The propane hissed in the darkness.

- x -

Terco himself led half a dozen of his men into the great processing compound near the airstrip, where La Roja's money could be clearly seen in the newer equipment, the less makeshift tools and tables, and the drums and tanks that hadn't yet had time to grow mossy or rusty. There were even metal cabinets for some of the chemicals, although the padlocks had already been stolen.

Amaro grinned his crooked grin at the look on the shed boss's face – they had easily recognised each other. "_Hola, _Ignacio. Are you still living off the fat of the land? Sucking sweat from honest men's work? Boiling them alive for their grease like a _pishtaco_?" Ignacio blustered as he was led away, at the head of the entire crew, to stand trial beside the _traquateros_.

Behind them, Sinchi waited with four other men for a full ten minutes before moving in. Their target was the kerosene stores: a 55 gallon drum was centrally located at each cluster of three or four _pozos_, and another dozen drums stood ready near the central chemical storage area. Each man had one of the screw-top jars of minced aluminum, and an IncaKola bottle of hydrochloric acid.

Sinchi waited by the main fuel cache until his men had reached their targets and called out in Quechua that they were ready. Each of them tapped on the drums to find one that was only partly full, found the point where the sound changed to show the level of the liquid, and put a bullet through the drum just above that point. They couldn't smell the vapours oozing out through the bullet holes – the entire compound reeked of kerosene from the _pozos _– but the prickling of the skin intensified.

Sinchi found a drum that was nearly empty, and smiled. The level of the kerosene had fallen too low for the dregs to be easily reached with an ordinary mounted pump; instead, the lid itself had been loosened, probably by Ignacio, the cheap bastard. He'd want to get every drop out of the drum. Sinchi made certain he'd be able to get the damned lid off himself, then called out to his men to go ahead.

The _Yanqui _had insisted that the job had to be done quickly; they would only have a few minutes to clear the area, although he couldn't predict how fast they'd have to move. The jars were opened and the acid poured in over the metal; the lids screwed back on, quickly but securely – that had been emphasised also. _Make it tight, or we waste our time and La Roja laughs tomorrow instead of weeping._ Sinchi dropped his jar into the nearly-empty drum and quickly clapped the lid back on; the evil stuff in the jar had already begun to bubble and fizz, growing warmer in his hand even as he held it for those brief moments. His men set their seething jars down beside their drums. Maq' had told them the kerosene vapours would flow downwards from the holes, like unseen water.

They ran from the compound for the screen of the jungle as if chased by starving _pishtacos._

- x -

Mac and Xavier slipped along the narrow footpath that wriggled its way through the jungle. No-one could ever maintain a direct trail in the rain forest; even when a path started out straight, it had to bend and jink around obstacles. When colonies of voracious ants or stinging termites planted themselves in or near a trail, the path must shift to avoid them: men might quarrel with men, but nobody picked a fight with the insect world.

Terco was busy with his tribunal, and he could be avoided now. His men were scattered through the forest, planting chemical havoc in a dozen locations. Xavier led the way along the path, signaling to MacGyver to wait while he peered through the last screen of foliage at their goal.

They'd hoped that the sweep of workers from the processing compounds would include the personnel at the airstrip – Terco had been determined to corral the _traquateros_, and two of them were now being marched away, along with an oil-smeared mechanic and a sullen grease monkey of a boy. Diego had the biggest prize at gunpoint, a lighter-skinned man in clean, expensive clothing and shiny boots, with an offended glower on his face.

"The pilot," Mac breathed.

"_Sí_."

"He sure looks pissed off." Mac slipped up next to Xavier and peered out at the airstrip. "Anyone left behind?"

"Wait."

The tree frogs fell silent as the first gunshots were heard, and didn't resume their calls. There wasn't all that much gunfire – the single shots came sporadically, scattered here and there in the forest, marking the location of each processing shed as well as the progress of Terco's forces as they made their sweeps.

After half a dozen shots had rung out, another two men appeared from behind the rough canvas tarps that marked the fuel depot. They were glancing around anxiously, whispering to each other in Quechua, starting at each new crack. One of them was clearly dithering; the other was reluctant to leave by himself. When a fresh cluster of shots erupted from the main processing compound, much closer to hand, the waverer finally broke. Both men ran into the forest, in the opposite direction to the _pozos_, and disappeared.

"Let's go," Mac whispered.

The fuel cache was impressive – twenty, no, thirty drums at least, high-octane aviation-grade gasoline. _Fifteen hundred gallons, maybe more . . . that oughta make an impression._ The airplane must have been refueled by now; it was tied down for the night, barely twenty yards away – a Britten-Norman Islander, turbocharged to handle the high-altitude flying between here and Colombia, capable of carrying three-quarters of a ton of base coca paste with each flight. Probably fully loaded, and only waiting for tomorrow's sunrise to make its next shuttle run to Cali.

Xavier eyed the plane thoughtfully. "Could you fly that thing, _amigo_?"

MacGyver ran his tongue across suddenly dry lips and swallowed hard, trying to remember how long had it been since he'd flown any kind of aircraft. He shook his head. "Not one-handed . . . and it makes for a real lousy trip when your pilot passes out in mid-air."

They worked quickly: Xavier with a fierce, almost gleeful energy, MacGyver dogged, but careful and precise. The pain in his swollen arm was growing again, beginning to throb with a maddening beat like really bad disco music. He'd left his shirt behind when they'd slipped out of the abandoned camp – he hadn't felt up to the painful challenge of getting it back on under the sling, and even the pressure of the light cloth over the sling hurt too much. Now, with night falling, he was starting to shiver again. He gritted his teeth and made his hand work smoothly in spite of the tremors.

"You're very good at this," Xavier observed companionably. "Have you had a lot of practice?"

"Too much," Mac grunted, wondering foggily if Xavier meant stubborning his way through injuries, or committing sabotage. He thought, briefly, of some of the missions he'd been sent on in his DXS days – even when the target really needed to be taken out, he'd hated being sent to plant bombs instead of defusing them. It had always gone against the grain. And it was just too easy – today had been way too easy. It was unnerving, how easy this was. _It's always too danged easy to destroy things . . . the trigger's connected to the detonator, the detonator's connected to the explosive._

They finished their work and ran – or tried to run; MacGyver stumbled and Xavier cursed, fell back to Mac's right side, seized his right arm and slung it over his own shoulders. He was tall for a Peruvian, sure-footed in the darkness as he half-carried Mac along the path towards the river.

They were well into the shelter of the forest when the explosions began, far enough that the shock waves slammed into the trees instead. But nothing could shield them against the shattering concussion of sound. MacGyver felt as if his throbbing body and aching head were exploding as well; his heart was racing and his breath came in gasps. Spots of flame swam in front of his eyes. He stumbled again, his feet tangling and his legs gone rubbery, and tried to pull away from Xavier's grip before he dragged them both down. The grip tightened instead, and he could hear Xavier swearing at him.

"Goddamn you, _amigo_, don't you give up on me now . . . _move your goddamned feet_ . . . "

- x -

In the big clearing near the river, a bonfire had been lit, although there was plenty of light from the moon, only one day past full. The only sound was Terco's voice as he harangued and denounced. No voices were raised in the crowd – not even murmurs or whispers, although over a hundred workers had been forced to gather for Terco's tribunal. They stood silent, watching and waiting to see what would happen next, to be told the conditions that would allow them to survive the night and live to the next dawn. If there _were_ going to be any survivors – whether facing the Army or Sendero, no-one in Peru ever made that assumption.

The first fireball blossomed in the darkness, halfway up a hillside, scarlet and orange flame against the shadow of the forest: first a small bloom as the propane ignited, then a second puff as the kerosene in the _pozo_ went up. The fire showed for a moment as a silent night-blooming flower; then the thump and roar of the explosion reached the ears of the crowd at the tribunal.

The sound was still drawing echoes from the hills across the river when the next _pozo_ went up, and the next – this one was part of a larger complex, and the billowing puffs of flame piled up, one on top of another, as the first explosions spread to the rest of the shed, igniting anything burnable. A rolling wave of sound bore inexorably down upon the watchers; men screamed and covered their ears, while Terco threw his head back and began to laugh, his roar of triumph almost as loud as the first distant explosions.

He was still laughing when the big compound went up in a shattering series of deafening thunderclaps, a tower of flame and smoke piling up on itself, bathing the river valley with a hideous fiery sunset. Behind the sound came the shock waves, ripping into the trees like the pounding hand of a furious god, carrying enough force to slam into the assembled crowd and knock them sprawling, screaming with terror.

Then the fuel depot at the airstrip erupted in a roar and a blaze that made all the other explosions nothing more than an opening salvo. The night shredded into a thousand noisy fragments, punishing the ears with a thunder beyond imagining. Trees rippled and swayed and bent before the hammer blows, raining down leaves and branches.

The men could not bend like the trees, quickly enough or smoothly enough; accusers and accused, watchers and listeners alike cowered and tumbled to the ground, clutching at heads that rang with the concussion, squeezing eyes shut against the terror, waiting for the next blow that must surely be fatal. The world was bathed in flame, blood-red and orange and searing yellow-white, brighter and hotter than the midsummer sun. The descendants of the Inca had come to ransom back their stolen land from the invaders, paying out a treasure of burning gold, a fiery cataclysm upending and ending the world.

- - x - -


	11. Demonstrative

**Reverb**

_Eleven: Demonstrative_

- x -

MacGyver's ears were still ringing with the shock of the crashing blasts, and bright sparks danced in front of his eyes. The world was upside down. That didn't seem too odd – after the explosions, if anything, it seemed only right – but the world wouldn't turn rightways up again.

Instead, it swayed. Something was swinging back and forth in front of his face, either above him or below him, depending on which way up was supposed to be. When he tried to lift a hand and move it out of the way, he realised the swinging thing _was_ his hand.

And the moving things, not that far beyond it, were feet. Hurrying feet. He was slung over someone's shoulder, and the world was actually right ways up, but he wasn't. The world was apparently still in one piece, and he was too. Sort of. He hoped.

There had been an eye-searing vision of clouds of fire, blooming and billowing up from the explosions, but the blazes had ebbed away and left the night even darker than before. This early in the dry season, the jungle would not succumb to fire – the rains had paused, but the tangled trees and looping vines and choking undergrowth were soaked down every morning by the heavy fogs from the river.

There had been a foul smell of chemical smoke in the air, but the night air bore no trace of that now, only thick scents of leaf and earth, of growth and rot. The heavy wet smell of the river was thickest of all, with a faint trace of old paint and machine oil that grew suddenly stronger as the floorboards of an open boat jumped up and thwacked him – mercifully, on his right side, although the impact jarred him all over. Mac bit back a strangled cry of pain. Wherever he was, making a lot of noise was probably a lousy idea.

"Damn good thing you've gotten so skinny, _amigo_. You're no treat to carry." Xavier's voice above him, a murmur in the dark. Around him, close to his ear beyond the thin skin of the boat, the deep rushing voice of the river.

Mac's head was still throbbing with the thunderclaps of the explosions, and his agitated heartbeat hammered in his ears. An engine coughed to life and added its rattling thumps to the confusion. The noise of the river grew louder as the boat began to move and picked up speed. The steady splashes smoothed away the other sounds and washed over Mac, carrying away the heat and the chill and the throbbing pain. His heart steadied, backed off from the hammering that had been shaking him into dizziness. The thumping of the boat engine faded away into peaceful silence and a welcome darkness.

- x -

Running feet thumping out in the hotel corridor – Pete recognised Sam's tread even before the footsteps halted at the door of their suite. He rolled out of bed and found his bathrobe in the dark, and had wrapped it around himself and hurried out into the sitting room by the time Sam had opened the door, his key fumbling in the lock in his haste.

"What's up? What's going on? Did something go wrong tonight?" Sam had been out late again, playing mechanic and gathering gossip.

"Bush telegraph's gone crazy, Pete. Word's out all over town – big excitement downriver. The whole coca processing compound down around Puerto Pizano is gone."

"What?"

"Blown up!"

"When?"

"Earlier tonight, I guess." Sam shook his head. "I still can't get over how fast news spreads."

"They _do_ have telephones here, Sam," Pete said. "Was it Sendero?"

"Nobody seems to know. Pete, the really funny thing – what's got everybody talking – is that _there weren't any casualties_. Whoever did it made all the people leave the compound, then boom, the whole thing blew at once."

"That doesn't sound like Shining Path at _all_." Pete felt a roaring in his ears, as if the Huallaga River outside their window had suddenly grown into a raucous cataract. "_That sounds like your father_!"

"I _know_!"

"Wait a moment – " Pete frowned. "Did you say Puerto Pizano?"

"Yeah. That means something to you?"

"It means plenty. It was in Urteaga's documents – that's the Rojas territory. It's just north of Tocache, where they found Valdivieso's body. Her husband bought into the plantation holdings there, and she's been expanding – didn't you say it was the processing compound?" Without waiting for an answer, Pete whirled and headed back to his bedroom. "We need to get out there – I'd have the helicopter take us out there, but I don't know if they can handle a landing in the dark . . . damn it! I suppose we could land at Tocache . . . unless the Peruvian Army decides to make things difficult, of course . . . "

"Um, Pete, wait . . . " Pete paused in mid-stride and looked back towards Sam with a puzzled frown. "I already scrambled the chopper . . . I'm sorry, I didn't even think to check with you first. Lupe and Raquella are meeting me at the helicopter pad in fifteen minutes."

Pete smiled, nodded. His heart squeezed deep inside, but he didn't say anything about that. Somehow, the timbre of Sam's voice had managed, just for a moment, to match Pete's memories of MacGyver's voice – it must be at least fifteen years back – apologising sheepishly for some moment of wild improvisation that had saved both their lives. _Sorry, Pete. I just went ahead . . . you okay?_

"Lupe? Dr. Salazar? Why?"

"Lupe can direct the pilot for the night landing – trust me, she's got this knack. The pilot told me about it himself," Sam answered. "Raquella's our ticket into the area. There's a big clinic in Tocache and a little satellite one in Puerto Pizano. The way the news is spreading, it won't be too much of a surprise when extra medical staff turn up."

"I thought you said there weren't any casualties."

"Yeah. Hard to believe, isn't it? It's so hard to believe that Raquella's going anyway. She won't let Pilar come, though."

Pete had gone very still, very suddenly. He reached out and caught Sam's arm. "You weren't planning on my coming, were you?"

Sam opened and closed his mouth, a fish beached on a dry strand. Pete nodded with resignation and let him go.

"Keep me posted. I'll stay here with Pilar and keep her from running off into the bush and risking her life."

"Pete . . . "

"Go on! Get out of here. The chopper's waiting." Pete turned away from Sam and tugged the sash of his bathrobe a little tighter. Frustration warred with pride. Pride won – pride for Sam, not his own personal pride.

"If there's any questions, have the pilot call me. I'll tell him you have my complete confidence." He turned back to Sam and flapped his hands. "Scoot."

- x -

"Just the one man – so far, anyway – I know, it sounds crazy, but it's true. He's in here . . . " Dr. Quiñones, the head physician at the clinic in Tocache, was talking so quickly to Raquella that Michael Thornton could barely follow the rapid Spanish as he trailed in their wake. "No identification, no idea who he is. He was brought in to the clinic in Puerto Pizano earlier this evening, and they had him brought here – "

"They moved him that quickly?" Raquella's face darkened with professional outrage. "What, they were afraid to keep him? Esteban thought he'd be better off if the poor bastard dies in this clinic instead?"

"Dr. Salazar, _relax_, he was stable – that's what I'm trying to tell you. He hasn't been shot and he wasn't caught in the explosions. As far as anybody knows, _nobody _was. No burns – "

As the doctor swung the door open, Michael took one look at the still figure on the bed, whirled and dashed back down the hallway.

"Lupe! _Lupe_! Where's Sam?"

"He just left – I think he's off looking for someone to interview – "

"Get his ass back here _**now**!_ _¡**Ándale**!_"

Michael hurried back, shouldered past Dr. Quiñones and Raquella, and took two steps towards the bed. He stopped with a yelp when a hard-eyed _mestizo _in ragged camo materialised in front of him. Michael found himself staring down the barrel of a rifle. A _big_ rifle.

"No closer! Who the hell are you?"

Michael's eyes widened; he remained very still. He thought of his father and tried to pretend that he was used to angry men with loaded guns, that he could face them down any day. He swallowed. "I could ask you the same thing." He risked a glance over at the doorway. Raquella and Dr. Quiñones were glowering at each other.

"And what is this man doing here?" she demanded. "Alejandro, did you know he was here? And armed?"

Quiñones shrugged. "I thought he had left . . . I _told_ him, no guns allowed here, but who listens to me?"

Sam's feet pounded out in the hallway, and he pushed into the room past the glowering doctors.

"Michael, what the hell's going on . . . ?" his voice trailed off when he saw the rifle. His eyes flicked from the dark stare of the gun barrel to the dark eyes of the man who held it; but in the same moment – a very long, breathless moment – the rifle swung down to the ground, and the ragged _guerrilla_ stepped forward and clasped Sam's shoulder, studying his face. To Sam's surprise, he spoke in English.

"He did not tell me he had a son."

The calloused hand cupped Sam's face for a moment, then the man stepped back. "I am Xavier. Come, see for yourself. Your father will live, unless these fine doctors are all fools."

The clinic had never been intended to function as a hospital. The tiny examination room where MacGyver lay unconscious on the exam table quickly grew overcrowded. Xavier would neither leave the room, nor allow anyone to enter except for Sam and the doctors.

Raquella shooed Michael away, to call his father with the euphoric news and arrange for the helicopter to be ready to leave at first light. He then collared Lupe, who was determined to remain underfoot, and hauled her off to Tocache's only watering hole, to gather what news they could. He didn't think they'd learn much from the enigmatic man who had been ready to kill to protect Mac, but wouldn't admit to anything more than his name; and Michael didn't see any use in crowding him.

Dr. Quiñones relinquished his territory to Raquella, and grumbled his way home to bed. Raquella came and went as needed, leaving Sam on his own in the sickroom for much of the time. She knew, by instinct or experience of her countrymen, what she was doing: once it was plain she would not intrude casually, Xavier began to talk, quietly and succinctly, to Sam. Sam sat holding his father's right hand, careful not to displace the IV tubes – the left arm was now swathed in bandages – and listened to the regular hiss of the oxygen and the soft, matter-of-fact voice of the _senderista_.

Sam didn't think he had nodded off. But if he hadn't, then the three strange men had simply walked in between one eyeblink and the next. Xavier seemed unalarmed at the sudden materialisation, so Sam dropped back into his chair, his half-formed shout unvoiced. Two of them remained near the door while the third crossed to where Xavier sat and began to talk to him. Sam couldn't even pick out individual words in the rapid flow of sounds. _Quechua, I bet, or maybe even Asháninka._

With the immediate panic set aside, Sam's next thought was for his camera. It would be _such _a great shot, gritty and powerful – but he hadn't wanted to risk the delicate trust Xavier had extended by brandishing a camera. He doubted they'd agree to be photographed anyway. The men were obviously adults – one was old enough to show some grizzle in his straight dark hair – but the tallest of the three was barely his height. Their dark faces were faintly Asian. They were dressed like Xavier, in ragged khaki and camo, and all three were armed. They carried their weapons – two twelve-gauge Winchester shotguns and an FAL rifle – with a casual expertise.

Sam frowned at the men's feet. Two of them wore battered rope sandals; the third wore an incongruous pair of fine leather boots, mud-splashed but nearly new. The left boot was marred with slashes where strips of leather had been cut out, and the dark skin of the man's leg could be seen through the gaps.

The conversation was animated but brief; the oldest of the Asháninka, the one with the rifle, seemed to be giving a report. Xavier asked occasional questions, and finally nodded and gestured towards the door.

"_Adios, Sinchi_." Something in the tone made Sam guess he wasn't hearing just a casual good-bye. _Go with God._ The three men slipped back into the corridor with less noise than a passing breeze. Sam couldn't help himself; he hurried to the door and peered out into the hallway, then turned back to Xavier.

"That's pretty slick," he said. "Do they actually turn invisible? Or do they cloud men's minds, or something like that?"

Xavier blinked at him, then barked a hoarse laugh. "That would be telling secrets, _Maqito_."

"The name's Sam."

"Are you so different from your father?"

"Um, maybe not . . . " Sam's attention snapped back to MacGyver, who had begun to grow restive. He darted back to the bedside, peering into his father's face.

"Raquella? Dr. Salazar? I think Dad may be coming around . . . " Sam's voice trailed off. Raquella appeared in the doorway and took one stumbling step into the room. She could come no further; behind her loomed the massive shape of Terco. He had one hand clenched in the collar of her white coat, the fabric bunched up and half-strangling her, and was holding a pistol to her head with his other hand.

Sam looked wildly from Terco to Xavier, and his face blackened when he saw no sign of surprise in Xavier's face. His rifle lay across his knees under his slack hands. "You son of a _bitch_ . . . you never _meant_ to let him go, did you?" he stormed, growing even angrier when the only answer was a shrug. "_Bastard!_"

Terco smirked, and took the gun away from Raquella's head. One hard shove sent her staggering towards Sam. He covered them both with the pistol, a Beretta 92, as he gave Sam a long, careful look, ending in a satisfied glint. Sam bridled. He'd seen that look more than once, and he'd quickly learned to hate it. _Leverage. God damn you, I'm not a prybar. Don't you dare think you can use me to move my father._

The satisfied gaze moved back to Raquella, along with the focus of the gun. Terco jerked his chin towards where MacGyver lay. "How soon before we can take him out of here?" The curt words were in Spanish, although Sam was certain the man had understood his English perfectly well, especially the swearing.

Raquella drew herself up to her full height and glared. "He's not going _anywhere_ except to the hospital in Lima."

"Bullshit." Terco took a menacing step closer to her. "You patch him up so he comes with me, or he dies right here. And you'll wish you had died quickly, you revisionist whore." He seized her again, by the front of her coat, and shifted his grip on the gun, ready to lash her across the face.

Sam hated being discounted as nothing better than leverage. But he loved being overlooked, even momentarily. The room was small and Terco was a nice, large, close target; and Sam had seen him set the safety on the Beretta – _guess you lose points if you try to pistol-whip someone and end up shooting your own foot, huh?_ Terco wasn't even watching him when Sam's leg lashed out in a hook kick, knocking the gun cleanly out of his hand and sending it clattering off into a corner. He released Raquella and turned towards Sam with a roar of rage that ended in a choke when Sam's next kick, another hook, caught him in the throat.

Terco staggered backwards, coughing, his hands clenching and unclenching, as Sam grabbed Raquella and pushed her into the corner behind him. He saw, out of the corner of his eye, that she was scrabbling for the fallen gun. He was bracing himself and judging the best moment for his next move when a double thunderclap deafened him.

Terco's body erupted in a spray of blood; he reversed and staggered forward, toppled and fell heavily. The back of his shirt lay in blood-soaked tatters, an inadequate veil over the red ruin beneath; and the back of his head had been blown open. The antiseptic smell of the room was drowned in an overpowering stench of gunpowder and blood.

In the doorway, Sinchi lowered the shotgun he held, bowing sardonically to Xavier. Sam stared in confusion, trying to sort out the confusion of what had just happened. _Bang, boom – __**two**__ shots? Shotgun and . . . _He looked in bewilderment from Sinchi back to Xavier.

Xavier was lowering his own gun – not the rifle, which still lay across his knees; from somewhere he had produced a pistol that Sam hadn't even suspected he was carrying, a 9mm Browning automatic. Now he held it loosely in his hand. His face was utterly blank.

Sam pulled Raquella to her feet and held her close, both of them shaking, watching as Sinchi and his companions picked up the body of Terco and disappeared again. Even with the heavy burden, they made little more noise than mice. Xavier watched them go, his face still expressionless.

Sinchi nodded at him one last time as they left. "_Adios_."

Sam looked at Xavier as the Browning vanished again into his clothing. He watched the man lift the rifle from his lap, unload it, and lean it against the wall behind him. "I . . . I'm sorry . . . "

The answer was yet another shrug. Xavier seemed to have an entire dictionary of shrugs, each with its own rich nuances.

"What'll you – " Sam was interrupted before he could finish.

"Wha's goin' on . . . ?"

They started at the muttering from the bed; before Raquella could get to MacGyver and stop him, Mac had reached up and pulled the oxygen mask from his face. He tried to sit up, and was halted by Xavier's palm flat against his chest. Mac scowled at Xavier, whose own mask had suddenly melted; he scowled back, but without conviction.

"_Idiot_. Lie still and let the pretty doctor do her job. I didn't haul your ass all this way to let you waste my hard work."

"Xavier . . . thought I heard Terco . . . gunshots . . . "

"You did. Forget Terco. There's someone else here who wants you home." He looked over his shoulder at Sam, and gestured with his head to ask the young man to approach. "Don't push it. He might change his mind."

MacGyver's haggard face lit up. "Sam . . . "

"Hey, Dad . . . " Sam bit his lip. "You look like hell, in case you're wondering. How long since you had a shave? Or a bath? Or a square meal?"

Mac tried to run his right hand along his stubbled jaw, but Sam caught at the arm. "Stop right there, okay? They didn't stick all those tubes into you just for fun, Dad. And I'm putting that oxygen mask back on you, and you're gonna keep it there, you got that?"

"You been takin' lessons from Pete?" Mac glowered.

"No, from Raquella – Dr. Salazar here."

"Your mom was never this bossy." Mac's eyes flicked up towards the door to the hallway. "Where's Xavier goin'?"

The _guerrilla_ had slipped out of the room and was well down the corridor before Raquella, running, caught up with him.

"Wait! Where are you going?"

He turned an unsmiling face to her. "If I knew, I wouldn't tell you, pretty doctor."

"But you don't know? Then don't leave." She caught at his arm. "For God's sake, you just saved his life! _And _mine."

Xavier scowled. "If I had not brought him here – "

"You have nowhere to go, do you, señor?"

Xavier shrugged.

"Why leave? You're needed here. You've been treating him, haven't you?"

"I don't know what you mean."

"You kept him alive. Don't deny it." Raquella tightened her grip on Xavier's arm. "You must care about him or you wouldn't have brought him here. What are you going to do, just disappear back into the jungle? Go find a bullet to stop?"

"Pretty little doctor." Xavier was shaking his head. "What difference will it make if I do?"

"It _will_ make a difference. It already has. Don't you understand?" She tugged at his arm, inexorably turning him away from the exit. "That's not just my patient in there. He's yours also."

Xavier met her eyes with a scowl. "Bush medicine. What of it? Who cares?"

Raquella gave an unladylike snort as she drew him back down the hallway towards MacGyver's sickroom. "Come here. Look at this." Sam and MacGyver watched with astonishment as she marched Xavier back inside and over to Mac's bed, where she lifted Mac's right hand. "Both wrists were injured at the same time, yes? One still unhealed – that was the origin of the septicemia – the other already healing cleanly. That didn't happen by accident. What did you use? _Kiratarixi?_"

"No. I couldn't find any. If I had, maybe . . . " He shrugged again.

"Um . . . " Mac cleared his throat. He still hadn't let Sam replace the oxygen mask. "Can I have my hand back when you're all done?" Raquella released him with a start, and he caught at Xavier's sleeve. "C'mon, Xavier, spill before I go nuts. What _happened_? How'd I get here?"

"You don't remember anything?"

"I – ," Mac groped mentally. "I remember the fireworks, of course. I remember – I think I remember a boat . . . where am I, anyway?"

"You're in Tocache," Raquella broke in. "In the clinic. You're lucky to be alive." She tried to replace the oxygen mask herself, but Mac fended her off.

"After the explosions, most of the workers ran," Xavier said. "There was fighting after that. Raoul is dead – he started shooting the _traquateros_. They shot back."

Mac's eyes hardened. "I oughta be able to say I'm sorry . . . "

"Raoul was an animal." Xavier's voice was flat.

Mac nodded grimly, then frowned. "Xavier, hang on a minute. How do you know all this? You hauled me outta there right after the fireworks started, didn't you?"

"Yes, yes. Sinchi and Jair and Ira were all here. They told me what happened. The real fighting broke out when the pilot saw what had happened to his plane."

"But we _didn't_ blow up the plane." MacGyver looked aggrieved. "We blew up the _fuel_."

Sam raised an eyebrow at his father. Raquella giggled.

"Okay, so I guess it musta messed up the plane. I sure hope it did," Mac added with heat.

"You could put it that way," Xavier grinned. "Sinchi said the shrapnel from the fuel drums must have sliced through one of the tiedowns. The plane flipped over."

"No kiddin'?"

Xavier nodded with delight, gesturing expansively as he spoke. "For such a short flight, it was a very rough landing. Sinchi said the wings were almost ripped off, and it was lying on its back like a crushed beetle. And the plane's skin looked like it had the pox."

"What the hell did you use on it anyway?" Sam asked. "Xavier said you were messing around with – excuse me – aluminum and _sugar_?"

"And permanganate."

Sam glared at him. "_Dad._ Don't tell me you were cooking up manganese oxide!"

Mac looked even sulkier. "I'm not _that_ crazy."

"Beg to differ. So – aluminum dust, powdered permanganate and sugar? Cool. That a traditional MacGyver family recipe?"

"Guess it is now." Mac frowned. "Xavier. You said Sinchi and the others were here – "

"They are gone."

Xavier's silence was suddenly very loud. Mac raised an eyebrow. "_Amigo_?"

Finally, Xavier spoke again. "They will go home, if they can. If not, they will go somewhere else. They are taking Julio home too."

"Pablo?"

Xavier shrugged, then shook his head. Sam saw Mac's eyes darken.

"What happened to Terco?"

Xavier looked at his unloaded rifle, then glanced at the floor of the room, where pools and smears of drying blood were plainly visible.

Raquella cleared her throat. "The clinic has no night staff – they will be here at dawn and clean it up then . . . "

Mac's voice was very soft. "So did you lose your closest enemy? Or closest friend?"

Xavier shrugged. "Neither, _amigo_. Both. He was my cousin."

- x -

At the Hospital Casimiro Ulloa in Lima, Pete had borrowed the office of the attending physician to call Los Angeles with the most recent good news.

"That's right, Nikki – MacGyver's out of danger. He's going to be all right . . . he was only in the early stages of septicemia, and he's responded well to the antibiotics. They've taken him off the oxygen and the IV, and they're moving him out of intensive care already."

A listening silence. "Yeah, 'cranky' is a pretty good description. You know how much he hates convalescence. He's already too bored to be distracted by Westerns any longer."

Another, briefer silence. "No, mostly it's been the nurses trying to flirt with _him_."

Another pause. "I am _not_ telling him you said that."

A knowing smile at the answer. "Yes, I'll give him your best wishes."

- x -

"Look, kids. We are dropping this subject _now_. You got that?"

Pete had entered MacGyver's hospital room just in time to hear the outburst. He looked with puzzlement at Sam and Michael's crestfallen faces. "What subject?" he asked.

"They want detailed stats on my bumpy past." Mac growled.

Pete smiled – or, rather, smirked. "So just what do they want to know about? How many times you've been kidnapped by terrorists? Ended a mission in the ICU? Blown up something bigger than a breadbox?"

"_**No**_." Mac glowered, and finally sighed. "The number of rides I've taken on the _outsides_ of aircraft."

"Well, you did make a fuss about the chopper ride." They'd brought Mac from Tocache to Tingo María in the helicopter, and then airlifted him by plane to Lima.

"Pete, it wasn't Dad who made the fuss at first. It was that chopper pilot. He thought Dad was Sendero, and said he'd rather eat ground glass – well, anyway, he didn't want Dad in the chopper."

"Or Xavier," Michael added. "Especially not Xavier."

"That's when Xavier offered to stay behind, and Raquella wouldn't let him, and Lupe suggested Dad ride on the outside of the helicopter, and Dad was too out of it to realise she was joking, and – "

"Who says I was joking?" Lupe interrupted.

Michael wrapped an arm around her head and scrubbed her scalp with his knuckles. Xavier, who had been standing to one side with his arms folded and a stolid expression on his face, finally joined in the laughter. "Is that how you _Americanos_ keep your women in line?"

"Nope. It doesn't work, and they always find a way to get you back anyway."

"Ah." Xavier nodded solemnly. "Not so different at all."

Pete turned to Xavier, holding out his hand. "I don't think I've thanked you properly."

Xavier shrugged, then looked embarrassed as he took Pete's hand and began to stammer. "Forgive me, señor, I did not think – "

"My eyesight's limited, but not gone. I can see you clearly enough. I can also see that you're at loose ends, and I want to help. It's the least I can do after all you've done."

In the week since they'd brought MacGyver out of the back country, Xavier had seemed to dwindle even as Mac regained strength. He was ill at ease and out of place in the city; his clean new clothes seemed to hang on him like sacks. He shrugged again and spoke softly but very clearly. " 'After all I've done', señor? Have you even stopped to _think_ of all that means?"

Pete bowed his head gravely in acknowledgement, but the set of his shoulders showed that he wasn't backing down. "If you think you need to leave the country, I can find you some options. I have contacts in several refugee organisations – "

"And I am one of the men who made refugees of them," Xavier interrupted bitterly. "If they should raise their hands to help _me_, it would be an insult to the dead and living alike."

"Xavier." Mac called from his bed, reaching out a hand towards him. Xavier folded his arms again, tightly.

"No. I will not leave my country. Not even if there was a place to go – everything I have done with my life, all the evil I did hoping for good, I thought I was doing for my homeland. Am I to run away from her now, this country that I have loved so much, _wronged_ so much?"

"But won't it be dangerous for you to stay – ?" Pete began.

Michael cleared his throat. "Um, Dad, can you hang on a moment?" Pete looked at his son with surprise, but Michael pressed on, not waiting for an agreement. "I've got an idea that might make a difference. Xavier – you speak Quechua, right?" Xavier nodded, and Michael nodded in turn, smiling. "I could _really _use a translator, a good one. Preferably one who doesn't scare easily. And I bet my wife will want to spend a lot of time asking you questions about biopharmaceuticals."

"Your _what?_" Pete interrupted. He stared at Michael.

"Well, fiancée, actually." Michael reached out an arm and pulled Raquella to his side. "I hope you and Mom are ready to be instant grandparents. Raquella's already got two kids."

Mac and the others watched the broad smile slowly bloom across Pete's face, as days of clues and hints, each one ignored or overlooked at the time, suddenly fitted into place to form a pattern of overarching joy. He strode over to Michael, embraced first him and then Raquella. "If you're ready, I'm more than ready . . . does your mother know?"

"Naw . . . um, I wanted to tell you first. And things got kinda busy . . . and they're _still _busy." Michael turned back to Xavier. "Well, _amigo_, what do you say?"

Xavier looked past Michael at Raquella, with dead eyes in a face that had become a blank mask. "You have children, Señora? What of your husband?"

Raquella smiled, a sad and bittersweet smile, and shrugged. Mac wondered if, in the years ahead, Michael would also acquire a broad vocabulary of shrugs.

The next question was almost a whisper, with a bitter edge laced with agony. "_How can you bear to be in the same room with me?_"

Raquella frowned and slipped from Michael's side, stepping purposefully up to Xavier and grasping him by both shoulders. Sam held his breath, expecting fireworks and explosions; only the day before, he'd heard her flaying the ears off of a sloppy hospital orderly whose carelessness had endangered a patient's life. She was in her twenties, only two or three years older than Michael, but like most of the women he'd met in Peru, she seemed to have the maturity and confidence of someone three times her age.

"_Stop that_. Unless you intend to fall to your belly and crawl back to the jungle and die there, slowly or quickly. This one time, I will step aside if you insist. But I don't think you truly wish to die." She fixed him with a piercing, questioning stare. "Well? Do you?"

Xavier shook his head.

"Good. Live. There's work to do. And if it is of any help to you, Sendero did not kill my husband. The Army did."

Xavier seemed to have lost his voice entirely, but the dead look was gone from his face. He lifted an eyebrow in inquiry.

"Yes, I am certain. Felipe was a journalist." She reached out to Michael, clasping his hand tightly. "I have told Michael that he may do and be whatever he likes and I will not complain, as long as he _never_ becomes a journalist."

Pete cleared his throat to speak, but before he could say anything, they heard running footsteps in the corridor outside, followed by an alarmed exclamation in Spanish. "Catch her! No, no, you bad monkey, come back here!"

The door was flung open and a small figure darted in, dodged through the forest of legs, and dived under Mac's bed. Mama Ortiz reached the entrance to the room and began to scold. Concepción's dark eyes peered out from under the bed. She glanced around as if weighing her chances, then sprang out, clambered up Xavier's legs with the speed of much practice, reached his chest level and swung from there onto Mac's bed. She landed on top of MacGyver hard enough to knock the breath out of him, bouncing and giggling, chanting, "Maq', Maq', Maq', Maq' . . . "

"Whoa!" Mac caught her hands as she grabbed a double fistful of his hair. "Ow! Okay, yeah, _encantada_, you little menace." He looked at Xavier with a grin that faded at the edges when he saw how still the other man was standing. _Yeah. Whoa. How long's it been since the last time a child touched you voluntarily? Or looked at you without seeing death?_ "Hey, Xavier."

"_¿Que?_" Xavier started.

"You're the tallest guy in the room – well the tallest one standing, anyway. Here. She likes height." Mac beckoned him closer. "Put her on your shoulders. Just don't let her – ow – grab your hair." He pulled his head away as Concepción gleefully settled onto the shoulders of the bemused Xavier, and ran his fingers through his abused hair. "Mama Ortiz, _que tal aqui?_"

Lupe piped up. "Sam and I ran into her at in the market, and she asked about you. I told her she should come and see you. Her face suddenly fell. "Oh! I blew your cover! Maq', I'm so sorry, I didn't think . . . "

"Hey, s'okay. No harm done." Mac was watching Xavier.

He'd managed to get Concepción to transfer her grip from his hair to his uplifted hands, and she was now standing on his shoulders, beaming down at the distant world in astonished triumph. She let go of one of the supporting hands, reaching up to try to touch the ceiling; but her foot slipped and she began to fall.

Even before the child had a chance to shriek, Xavier had caught her safely and was lifting her back up on to his shoulders. The scream of fear turned into a squeal of delight and Concepción hugged Xavier's head, pulled his moustache, then clambered back onto his shoulders and dived off again, this time deliberately. He caught her again and held her up, tried to look severe, and failed.

"¿_Otra vez, monita?_"

"_¡__Otra vez!_"

Xavier's eyes were damp in his smiling face as she climbed up again.

- x -

July in the Andes was almost exactly like June: chilly mornings and bright hot sunny days, and clear dry weather. As always this near the Equator, the steady progression of nearly equal nighttime and daytime continued to confuse anyone who was expecting long summer days and short nights. Even after this many weeks in Peru, MacGyver suspected that Sam still found it disorienting.

He checked his horse at the top of a slope and looked back over his shoulder to see how Sam was coming along. Not too badly, considering he'd never been on a horse in his life until just a few years ago. He would never be a natural rider, but at least he no longer looked as if he was trying to straddle a four-legged motorcycle.

"You doin' okay?" he called.

Sam grimaced and shifted in the saddle. "The horse is doing just fine. Me . . . " He looked at his father with an unreadable expression.

"What?"

"It's just really good to see you looking like yourself again."

"Yeah, well." Mac rubbed a hand through his hair with a grimace. "The skunk look just wasn't gonna cut it."

"That's _not_ what I meant!" Sam couldn't help laughing. By the time MacGyver had been released from the hospital in Lima, his hair was showing light roots under the dark brown dye. Mama Ortiz had found someone local who could strip out enough of the dye to make the effect less startling, since Mac had refused to even consider cutting his hair short. The new growth showed more grey than ever before, but neither of them mentioned that.

The trail was dry and the riding was easy, and a friend of Pilar's had entrusted them with two beautifully-mannered _paso_ horses; the smooth gait made it much easier for Sam to endure the strain of riding. He was determined that his father was not going to make this particular trip alone.

MacGyver was privately worried that he wouldn't be able to find the place again at all – that high rocky ledge in the sierras north and west of the Mantaro River, where the nameless rivulet emerged from the thickening flange of woods and hurled itself off the precipice. He wondered if they'd get there only to find all traces of the scuffle vanished, or a mocking message left carved into the rocks like a petroglyph.

- x -

The body was still there.

The birds and animals had been there too, of course, and the harsh sun and drying winds. The remains weren't pretty. But Murdoc's body was identifiable, not just from the missing right hand and left foot – immediately visible with the looted boots missing – and the bloodstained clothing. The discarded crutch still lay where it had fallen.

MacGyver had seen worse in his time. Sam hadn't – not yet – and turned away, trying not to retch. He knelt by the stream and rinsed out his mouth, and his gripping fingers left dents in the soft earth of the bank as the young man fought for control. Mac stood beside him, not speaking, resting a hand on his son's shoulder until Sam had pulled himself together. When he finally looked at the body again, his jaw set into rigid lines with the effort, but he didn't flinch again.

Mac handed one folding shovel to Sam, and set to work with a second. _No need to improvise this time._ They began to dig the grave in silence and accord. Mac didn't have to insist on the depth; Peru had too many shallow graves already. The earth was dry and sandy, laced with gravel, not too hard to move.

In spite of that, it wasn't long before MacGyver began to flag, and Sam reached out with his own shovel and hooked Mac's away from him. It slid out of his grasp and thumped on the ground.

"Hey!"

"Dad, get real. _Please_."

"What?"

"Get out of the sun and sit down. I can handle this." He glowered at the stubborn lines that had immediately begun to settle into his father's face. "You promised Pilar and Raquella that you wouldn't overdo it. You've barely been out of the hospital a week." As MacGyver started to answer, Sam added, "And _I_ promised them that I'd keep an eye on you and try to keep you from doing anything stupid."

Mac opened and closed his mouth silently a few times, unable to think of a reply. "Um. Okay . . . "

By the time he'd caught his breath and picked up his shovel again, the grave was deep enough. Filling it in was easier than digging it had been.

When the last shovelful of earth had been tossed and tamped, they stood silent for a moment. There really wasn't anything to say.

"It's over, Dad."

"Yeah." Mac straightened his back and looked out over the broad sweeping river valley and the serried ranges of wrinkled stone. He felt suddenly old. _It's really over. Right?_

He glanced down at his own hand where it held the shovel. One of his flakier friends from the Bay Area had sworn by the technique – _if you're not sure whether you're dreaming or not, look at your own hands._ The hand was tanned chestnut-brown, and the long fingers that curled around the handle showed dirt on the knuckles from digging. The palm was calloused from work – all the computers in the world couldn't keep him from doing things with his hands. Under the palm, the shovel was warm and slightly damp from sweat.

He wasn't dreaming. Murdoc was dead.

_I wonder how Pete's doing._

- x -

This time, it was Michael Thornton, not Sam, who played the role of attentive assistant, guiding Pete into the penthouse elevator after they'd announced themselves on the private intercom, making certain the presumably blind man didn't bump into the spindly side table in the elegant foyer. Pete walked with dignity, smiling grimly to himself – one careless swipe with his white cane, and he could send a few million _soles _of delicate Chinese porcelain antiques crashing onto the marble floor. Would a woman like Esperanza Rojas – 'La Roja' – be more enraged over that, or over the destruction of the coca processing compound, smugglers' plane included?

She was waiting for them at the high arched entrance to the penthouse. The high-rise was in the most exclusive part of the Miraflores district of Lima, and the large room behind her had floor-to-ceiling windows with a breathtaking view of the Pacific.

"Señor Thornton."

"Señora Rojas." He bowed his head very slightly. "I trust you're fully comfortable with English? I can keep my translator with me if you require, but I'd personally prefer to keep this conversation strictly between ourselves."

"As you wish." She eyed Michael, and his skin prickled at the shrewd, cold calculation he saw in the assessing glance. "This way, if you please. Your – boy – can wait in the kitchen with my servants until we are finished."

She led Pete into a sumptuous private study, and Michael helped settle him into a fine antique armchair. The room was well-lit, and Pete could actually see his hostess quite clearly: the expensive and exquisite clothing – custom-made European _haute couture_ – the heavy gold jewelry, the flawless dark coiffure that showed a few strands of white, the expertly applied makeup hiding signs of strain. Esperanza Rojas was in her late forties, stately rather than beautiful, with shrewd, hard, dark eyes. He could see the rings sparkling on her perfectly manicured hands – a broad gold wedding band, a showy diamond solitaire, the green glint of an emerald large enough for a signet ring. He smiled and settled comfortably into the silk upholstery of his chair and gently thumped the end of his cane into the lush thickness of the carpet.

"I'm sorry I'm denied the pleasure of admiring your décor," he said affably. "I must say you're putting up an excellent front, in spite of your recent – setbacks."

"I beg your pardon?" The reply was cool. "You said in your message you had something that belonged to me. Something you wished to return personally."

"Yes, of course." Pete reached into his briefcase and produced a plain wooden box, which he held out in her direction. She took it and raised the lid, frowning. The box held a Beretta 92 pistol.

"It's the one Señor Murdoc took from your guard, the night our man freed him from Hacienda Sandoval. And Dr. Velasquez, of course," Pete said matter-of-factly. He gave Esperanza a mental gold star for sanguinity, or self-control; she had made only the faintest of starts at the casual use of Murdoc's name.

"I doubt you'll recognise it personally yourself," Pete continued, "but feel free to have your staff check it out. It's the same one."

When she finally spoke, Esperanza's voice was very tightly controlled. "Where is Murdoc?"

Pete smiled jovially, almost chuckling. "Do you really think I'll tell you that? Just accept that we have him safe, and we know exactly where he is and what he's doing right at this moment.

"You must know that Murdoc pays his debts. He owes you one. He owes me a different kind of debt, and I'm collecting first. As long as I'm still collecting, I can keep you safe."

Pete leaned forward in his chair, the smile gone as if it had never existed. "The Phoenix Foundation is going to resume operations in this country. Dr. Velasquez' clinics are just the beginning. And, as you carefully noticed, my own son is here, and he'll be staying on in Peru indefinitely.

"You make one move against _any_ of my people, and the next thing your people will see will _not _be Murdoc. They won't see him at all. But they'll know he's been and gone. And by that time, it'll be too late for you."

"I think you're lying." Her voice had become brittle.

"Think whatever you like."

"Murdoc is a helpless cripple!"

"Of course he is. And I'm an old, helpless, blind man." Pete stood up suddenly, towering over Esperanza. He lifted his cane, and without apparently looking, tapped the end gently against the painted saddle of a T'ang dynasty porcelain horse on the side table next to where she sat. The priceless sculpture wobbled slightly. Pete lifted his cane in a light, swift gesture and sat down again. "Are you ready to bet your life on it? Your son's life?"

Esperanza's calm veneer crumbled into a blaze of molten fury. "Don't you _dare_ threaten my son!"

"I'm not making any threats," Pete said evenly. "I'm making an offer. Don't make me withdraw my protection, Señora Rojas."

- x -

In the cabin, MacGyver's voice had trailed away into silence; he was lying half-sprawled on the couch, his head tilted back on the cushions, staring blankly up at the dimly lit ceiling.

Nikki got up to add more wood to the fire, and wondered how late it was. She already knew that cell phones didn't work worth a damn up here – Mac had some kind of technical wizardry going that gave him coverage, but it didn't work for anyone else. She'd long since lost the habit of wearing a watch; she always had her cell with her, and it not only reset itself when she changed time zones, it even kept track of daylight savings time for her.

She looked over at Mac, her brow furrowed with concern, and then half smiled in spite of herself. She settled back on the couch and picked up his wrist, tilting her head to make out the time.

"I think you must be the only man I know who still wears a wristwatch," she murmured. "Except for the big shots who're just showing off that they can afford Rolexes. Crap. Two in the morning?"

"You can't use a cell phone as a compass," Mac replied. "Although they'll do as flashlights in a pinch." He rubbed his face tiredly. When he ran his fingers through his already disheveled hair, it stood on end.

"Oh, God, don't _do_ that." Nikki reached out impulsively and smoothed his hair down while he blinked at her in befuddlement. "For a moment there, you looked like you had that damned mullet again." Reluctantly, she let her mind go back to the subject that was staring them in the face. "So that's why you kept Murdoc's death a secret."

"Yeah. Alive, he was a toothache that just wouldn't go away. But as long as nobody _knew_ he was dead . . . " Mac sat up, gesturing aimlessly.

"I remember – it was right after you finally came back that Pete got Sonja Chapel to cooperate with us," Nikki mused. "He never did tell me how he persuaded her. But we finally got enough on the surviving members of HIT to shut them down for good." Her eyes narrowed. "I couldn't figure out why she didn't insist on at least getting her sentence shortened – instead, Pete got her transferred to a different facility. She must've figured she was safer inside. He let her think Murdoc was still alive, and on the loose."

"Yup. Pete can play pretty hard ball when he wants to . . . I mean, he _could_ . . . aw, nuts." Mac propped his elbows on his knees and buried his face in his hands, then ran his hands through his hair again. This time, Nikki didn't say anything.

Several minutes passed before she had settled the lump in her own throat. The fire crackled and popped. She shivered. "MacGyver – you saw the files I brought up here with me. If Murdoc really is dead . . . then _somebody_ is trying to take his place. And doing a damned good job of it."

"Sure looks like it."

"And whoever it is seems to know a lot about Murdoc – not just how he operated . . . " she bit her lip.

"Spit it out, Nikki."

She didn't answer. After a moment, Mac pressed on.

"Whoever it is, you think he's gonna want to prove himself . . . or maybe just wrap up that one loose end that Murdoc himself could never manage.

"You think he's gonna try to kill me."

- - x - -


	12. Interrogative

**Reverb**

_Twelve: Interrogative_

- x -_  
_

Nikki woke up, trying to puzzle out what was missing. The bed was very short and the rough wood of the ceiling was very close, close enough to touch – right. She was still up at the cabin, and she really needed to get out of bed and radio for the helicopter pickup that she'd had to cancel the day before. Bed was the lower bunkbed in MacGyver's granddaughters' bedroom – AnnaRose's bed, apparently; Petra had the upper bunk. AnnaRose, it seemed, was the only one of Mac's descendents to have inherited his distaste for heights.

_And if she's anything like her grandfather, she'll cope with it by becoming a tightrope walker. Or an astronaut._

The spare bedroom wasn't very large, but the sparse furniture kept it from seeming cramped. Morning sunlight was streaming in through a good-sized window, and Nikki could hear birds outside, and the enthusiastic clatter of the river. She had no idea what kind of birds they were. _I bet MacGyver knows them. All of them. Probably as individuals. I'd better not ask._ She found a large, loose flannel shirt in a cheerful red and black plaid draped over the inside door handle and wrapped it around herself, then went back to the window and pushed it open, leaning her elbows against the sill.

The morning smelled fresh and clean and alive, and was somehow both noisy and oddly quiet. Nikki spotted one particular bird in a tree barely a dozen yards away, a tiny brown thing half the size of a small pigeon, belting out enough music to drown out a radio, if there had been a radio to drown out. Okay, _that_ was it: the missing element. There was plenty to listen to around her, but underneath it all was a deep stillness. There was no sound anywhere within earshot that didn't have a natural cause – no hum of traffic, no half-heard radio or TV chatter, no voices calling, no bass thumping from some damned jerk's overcranked stereo. Her ears were used to tuning out the background hum of a crowded city, and in the absence of anything to tune out, the silence seemed deafening.

_MacGyver would say I've been in the city too long . . . but damn it, __somebody's__ got to keep things going._

She could smell woodsmoke, and hoped that that meant breakfast. Strange to know that the smell couldn't be coming from a neighbour. Not with the nearest neighbour miles and miles away.

It didn't mean breakfast; it did mean that the cabin was warm and cozy. Mac was sitting at the table, wearing what looked like the same shirt as yesterday – another plaid flannel, green and blue this time. He was bent over some task that had covered the table in white patches, too absorbed to look up when Nikki emerged from the girls' bedroom.

"Morning, mountain man. I don't suppose there's a prayer of coffee, is there?" Nikki remembered with annoyance that there probably wouldn't even be coffee makings available – Mac still didn't drink the stuff, and he obviously wasn't going to be feeding it to his grandkids.

"Check the cabinet by the fridge . . . I think Sam might've left something the last time he was up here. Lisa drinks espresso. And there's about fifty million kinds of herbal tea."

Mac obviously hadn't shaved. She wondered if he had slept; but his eyes were sharp and bright, without the haunted shadows she'd seen so clearly last night.

Nikki looked at the table to see what he was messing around with. "_Index cards?_ Isn't that a little, well . . . "

"What?"

"Um, quaint? Nostalgic? Low-tech?"

"Neo-Luddite?" Mac grinned.

"Yeah, that's the word." She cocked her head sideways, trying to puzzle out the scrawls on the cards. Mac's writing had always been terrible: there was an old story at Phoenix that Willis had once created a nearly unbeatable code system based on Mac's handwriting.

Mac shrugged. "My mom and Harry and I used to do jigsaw puzzles. My mom would tell me to look at the pieces that were already in place, and they'd tell you something about the pieces that were missing."

Nikki made a face. "Do we even have enough pieces to call it a puzzle?" From what she could see, some of the cards had details in blue ink of the various confirmed 'Murdoc sightings' – others, in red ink, had speculations or suspicions. One of the more legible cards, titled 'Ashton', lay in the middle of the spread, and Mac had been setting one card after another beside it.

"Part of one, anyway." Mac switched another card over to lie next to the 'Ashton' card, and frowned. He hunched his shoulders unconsciously. Nikki stepped behind him and began to rub his shoulders; he stiffened in surprise and then relaxed.

"So are you getting anywhere?"

"I'm not sure . . . Nikki, Murdoc was starting to tell me something. I didn't know what it was. I still don't. He said I hadn't solved for x. What the heck is x supposed to be?" He gestured with both hands at the spread of cards. "That's why all this – I'm tryin' to get an idea of just where the missing pieces are missing _from_."

Nikki found a kettle and filled it, made sure that the stove didn't actually run on firewood, and started hunting for coffee supplies. Old, stale instant coffee. Still, much better than nothing at all. And instant cocoa: that would help, even if it _did_ have little heart-shaped dried marshmallows in it. The mugs were easy to find. "But Murdoc's dead. We're looking for a copycat – why tear your hair out over all this?"

"Because it didn't make _sense_. It _still_ doesn't. When Murdoc was alive, I spent too much time lookin' over my shoulder, and not enough time lookin' at the whole puzzle."

"But Murdoc isn't the puzzle now. And you're back to looking over your shoulder. MacGyver, I'm not happy about you staying up here by yourself . . . " she trailed off when he looked up at her. She wasn't sure just what she was seeing in his eyes – Mac would never actually _panic_, but the fierce intensity was almost a physical shove.

"You thinkin' of ordering me off Phoenix property? For my own safety?" His tone was acrid.

"Whoa, big guy! Back off! I didn't mean anything of the sort! For one thing, you'd just fade off farther into the woods or something, right?" She sat down at the table and leaned towards him. "MacGyver, I _know_ you can take care of yourself. But you're way too easy to find here – there are too many records of where this place is. Too many people know you're here."

Mac had gone from glaring to staring at her oddly, shaking his head. The kettle boiled and started to whistle, and she scrambled out of her chair to go deal with it.

He was still studying her when she'd assembled her ersatz mocha and settled down again. She cocked her head expectantly. "What's up?"

"You, um . . . you sounded kinda like Pete there. Not the way you said it, but what you were saying . . . "

Nikki coloured and studied the surface of her mug. "He left impossible shoes to fill."

They sat in silence for a moment before she spoke again.

"I have to try to fill them anyway. So tell me. Why are you setting out now to chase after Murdoc's ghost, when we've got a copycat to catch?"

Mac found himself smiling, although he wasn't sure why. "I re-read your files – " he gestured towards Nikki's laptop, then looked embarrassed at her scowl.

"Nice job of hacking, MacGyver. How did you foil my fingerprint scanner?"

"Tell ya later. Nikki, I get the feeling the copycat doesn't just know Murdoc by reputation. I think the copycat actually _knew_ Murdoc. Personally."

Nikki's frown turned into an expression of nauseated horror. "Oh, God, you don't think Murdoc had a _kid_, do you?"

"No, I don't. But I don't _know!_ That's the problem – there's way too much we don't know! Once I knew Murdoc really was dead, I stopped tryin' to solve the puzzle." Mac laid his hands flat on the table on top of his spread of index cards, drumming his fingers. "The truth is, I screwed up."

"What?"

"_We_ screwed up. Pete and me – we came back from Peru and let the thing drop. We shoulda followed up right then, when the trail was at least a little bit warm. Pete went off to the prison at Chowchilla and talked to Sonja Chapel, but I didn't go with him. I didn't do _anything_. I let it all drop. I was so glad to know we'd finally gotten rid of Murdoc . . . aw, _man_." Mac ran his hands through his already wild hair and stared off into the distance, as if he was seeing an ever-increasing lineup of the dead.

"MacGyver, you were still recuperating. Your little adventure in Peru damned near _killed_ you. I haven't forgotten about that, even if you have! And then you were getting ready for Sam's wedding, and then he started at Phoenix full-time and you were working with him, and then Petra was born . . . Life went on. That's where your attention needed to be. Not with a dead man." Nikki picked up one of the index cards and studied it. "So you think the place to start is with Murdoc? Start back where the trail went cold?"

"It beats sittin' here waiting for him to come after me. Or her."

She nodded, then tried not to flinch when she realised her card held notes from the encounter on the Widowmaker. Twenty-one years – she'd never tried rock climbing again in all that time. She set the card down hurriedly.

Mac picked up the same card. "Murdoc kept goin' on about the Widowmaker and the mountains, and his sister."

"The sister. Is there anything more we could still try to find out?"

"Yeah. Carlos Sandoval – Esperanza Rojas' husband. Murdoc said he killed him because of Ashton's death. We never followed up on that. There didn't seem to be much point."

Nikki stood up. "I need to radio for the chopper. I wish I could just call – MacGyver, how the hell do you manage to get internet access out here, when you don't have any cell phone coverage?"

"The signal comes from Everett – I have a microwave repeater station up on Mount Pilchuck, and an antenna here in line-of-sight. I set it up two summers ago. It's kinda unofficial, but the ranger's a buddy of mine. It works pretty well except for occasional problems with the rain."

"Couldn't you get phone service out here too, the same way?"

"Geez, Nikki, why would I _want_ to? I _like_ being out of range."

He was smiling, ready to argue the point, but Nikki looked at him and the smile died. "I know that, MacGyver. And I know you'd really rather stay up here and catch fish for a few more months. Or years. But I need you to get into that chopper with me. You can always come back."

Mac swallowed and tried to look away.

"You can't sit up here and chop firewood forever, you know."

He glared at her, found his voice again. "Why not?"

Nikki cocked her head, nodded, smiled. "Good point."

MacGyver found himself breathing again, breathing deeply. "Just promise me you'll sit between me and Lupe."

"Don't tell me she's still making passes at you?"

"Every chance she gets."

_I don't blame her._ Nikki stifled the thought. Instead, she said, "So where's the radio? And in the meanwhile, why don't we start with our own files? Phoenix, I mean. We might have more on Ashton Cooke's death – god, it's been years. But everything in the files from those years was digitized, and it's all indexed – we can access the Phoenix intranet from here, right? You'll need a password – "

"Um, I already did all that."

"Oh." Nikki looked briefly nonplussed. "Good. Get anything useful?"

"There wasn't much; most of it's on the cards."

"There might be more, if we dig deeper. We can ask Willis – "

"I already emailed him."

"Oh." This time, Mac expected an all-out explosion, but Nikki only pursed her lips. "Did you turn him loose on the Carlos Sandoval angle as well?"

"Yeah . . . "

"Anything you _haven't_ done yet?"

"Um . . . make breakfast?"

A spark lit up in her dark eyes. "I don't suppose you still make those banana pancakes, do you . . . ?"

"Groceries are kinda low right now – I'm between supply runs. You oughta know that. I'm all out of bananas." Mac swallowed a smile at Nikki's disappointed face. It was an echo of AnnaRose's when he'd told her the same thing three days before. "How about blueberry?"

- x -

_Even as Nikki and I pulled into the visitors' section of the parking lot at the California Institute for Women in __Chino__, even as we were walking through the door, signing in and having our credentials checked and verified, getting run through the metal detector and the patdown and everything short of having our teeth checked, my brain was gallivanting off, trying to assess the place's security strengths and weaknesses and put together a plan for a potential extraction. Geez. What a habit to be stuck with._

_I tried telling my brain to knock it off. Maybe it's just that I've had a lotta practice lately tryin' to tell little kids what they shouldn't do . . . but I swear my brain started sulking and pouting and kicking rocks. Which is really kinda weird._

_Meanwhile, it turned out Nikki really did inherit Pete's bureaucratic mojo. She'd pitched the interview as providing essential support for an ongoing criminal investigation, pulled in an old buddy from the upper echelons of the LAPD to lend her some extra street cred, dropped hints of international security and inter-agency cooperation, and probably made the warden of the prison feel like she was in a real-life episode of '24'. I got a private interview – pretty near unheard-of – no hovering guard or ticking clock. There were cameras, or course, and I didn't know if they were recording, eavesdropping, or just observing by video link. All I could do about that was not let it matter._

The years hadn't been kind to Sonja Chapel. When Mac had last seen her, her hair had been long, dark, and lustrous; now it was short and lank, mostly a tired grey. She had put on a great deal of weight, and her puffy, lined face showed only a faint ghost of her former vivacious beauty. MacGyver wondered what had taken the worse toll – living in prison as a murderer without hope of parole, or living in fear without any certainty that Murdoc wouldn't turn up some day, in spite of all the wardens and fences and guards the California State prison system could bring to bear.

The dark glowering expression hadn't changed noticeably. Sonja sat and looked at Mac for some time before she spoke.

"So you're MacGyver." The voice hadn't lost its energy, or its sardonic edge.

Mac didn't answer, only made a noncommittal gesture and waited.

Sonja was better at handling long silences than most people Mac had ever met. When she finally spoke again, he was the one who felt jarred.

"I hear the old man's dead."

Mac stiffened, then cussed himself out for letting her score a point on him. "If you mean Pete Thornton, yes. He died last summer."

"Yeah." Sonja leaned back in her chair. "So what're you doing here? Cleaning up after him?"

MacGyver gave her a chilly look. She smirked.

"C'mon. You were his main miracle man for years, right? The unbeatable MacGyver. The guy who made a fool out of Murdoc." The smirk tightened. "Of course, some people would claim that was a short trip."

"Would you?"

Sonja hunched her shoulders, looking for a moment less self-assured. "Hell, no. Murdoc was _insane _– he was always so far off base he couldn't even see normal from where he stood. I'd bet he still is. But he's never been a fool . . . except when it came to his sister. And you."

_Okay. Sonja still doesn't know Murdoc is dead. Unless she's real good at pretending. She could be . . ._

"How _did_ you find out about his sister, anyway?"

Sonja smiled, but the expression didn't warm her face. "I've always been better at finding things out than he's ever been at hiding them." She rolled her eyes. "God, Nicholas was _such_ a fucking idiot. I swear he and Murdoc must have drunk the same Kool-Aid." She drummed her fingers on the table. Mac saw that her once-fine hands were now rough and calloused. "So. What the hell are you doing here?"

"Figured it was about time someone came and checked up on you." MacGyver didn't like the way the interview was going; he was in a bad position, and knew it. He was used to bargaining – lately, he'd had plenty of practice in handling the ruthless bargaining of small children, which could put the most hardened extortion artists to shame. But this wasn't bargaining, it was bluffing. He didn't even have lousy cards in his empty hand; he had no cards at all, not really, except for one great big whacking ace up his sleeve that could be played exactly once.

On with it, bad cards or not. "Heard anything from Murdoc lately?"

Sonja bared her teeth. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Do I have to spell it out?"

Sonja set both hands on the table and leaned over it, looking almost feral. "You _do_ know what Thornton promised me, right? I gave him the goods, and he swore I'd outlive Murdoc. He'd guarantee it. I didn't exactly believe him, you know – I couldn't – but damn, he was so _sure_ of himself." She studied Mac with narrowed eyes.

"The deal's held up so far." MacGyver gestured to their surroundings. "You still want to keep it going?"

She set her teeth. "_Yes_, damn it, I still want to live. You bastard. Even here. So what're you after?"

"I need information. "

Sonja scowled and settled back in her chair. "Thornton drained me dry. I haven't exactly been in touch with my old pals since then."

"That won't be a problem. I'm after old history. I need to know about Murdoc's past."

"You're asking the wrong person, then."

"C'mon." Mac leaned across the table, scowling in turn. "He told me years ago that he was one of the founders of HIT – and that you were one too. That puts your history back a ways. You gotta know _something_."

She was shaking her head. "I can't help you. And I mean I _can't_ – not won't. But there's someone else who can help, if you can get her to talk to you. It's worth a try."

"Someone who knew Murdoc when he was younger?"

"Someone who knew his mother." Sonja smirked again. "Yeah, I know. Just saying that kind of gives you the creeps, doesn't it?"

- x -

MacGyver had successfully avoided malls in general and department stores in particular for years. It didn't look as if much had changed, except for the technology available for the annoying, eye-jarring displays. The food court had a more international range than he recalled, but you still couldn't buy anything healthy there, just assorted carbohydrates embedded in grease.

It was still second nature to think in terms of resources and advantage, to be aware of exits, to check mentally on how much attention he was drawing. Not much. Between Bluetooth sets and iPods, cell phones and texting, Mac wondered how much it would take to catch anyone's focus. As he passed a shoe display on the main floor of Macy's, he was tempted to pick up three items at random and start juggling, to see how much time it took before anybody noticed. And how little time after that before the juggling video was posted on YouTube. The veneer of invisibility was wider than ever, but also thinner.

Still, it made a good place for a meet. Pete would have approved. _Pete . . ._ Mac hurried on past a display of men's tailored suits, wishing he had an axe and a stack of firewood handy.

He saw the woman, as promised, behind the jewelry counter: a thin, older, sprightly woman with bottle-blonde hair, dressed as well as a department store job allowed. She was smiling and talking animatedly to a woman with two kids; the boy was oblivious to everything except his cell phone, but MacGyver guessed that the girl was trying to talk her mother into a purchase, something with lots of rhinestones. He grinned. As soon as AnnaRose had grown out of her resistance to wearing clothes at all, she had gone straight into wanting anything and everything that sparkled.

The mother left, with her ecstatic daughter peering into every available mirror to admire her new glittery hairband and matching necklace. The woman behind the jewelry counter turned to MacGyver and smiled with professional cheer.

"Virginia Baker?"

The smile turned into a startled look, but she nodded. Her name tag simply said "Ginny".

"Name's MacGyver. Can you spare me a few minutes? It's – it's about Anne Cooke. I know it's an imposition, ma'am, but it's important." Mac proffered his Phoenix ID. "I know you're friends. Or were friends. She's not in any trouble or anything."

Ginny Baker studied the ID card. "_The_ Phoenix Foundation?"

"Yeah . . . ?"

"I read on the internet that you guys are socialists. And that you're a front for the New World Order."

"Um . . . "

"I also read that you helped fake the moon landing, and caused 9/11, and I think it's supposed to be your fault that the Yankees haven't won a pennant since 2003." She handed back the card with a smile and a thawing of the initial frost. "I hope the last one is true, anyway. Damned Yankees. Keep it up." She looked at her watch. "My lunch break starts in ten minutes."

Mac gave her his best smile. "Thank you." He looked at the gauds on display. "Meanwhile, maybe you can help me pick out something for my granddaughters . . . "

- x -

"So you don't know where Anne Cooke is now?"

Ginny Baker only had a half-hour for lunch, and had seized on MacGyver's offer to treat. He winced inside at the thought of the food court, but she was already willing to talk, so he'd have to make the best of it.

"No, I haven't seen her for years. She was terribly cut up when her daughter died. So tragic. Such a lovely child."

"Did she ever talk about Ashton having a brother?"

He'd crossed his fingers mentally, and felt his heart jolt when she pursed her lips and frowned. "Well, not _exactly _– but . . . she never really talked about her marriage, you know. Oh, I knew that she wasn't a widow. And that her marriage had been – it was what we used to call 'difficult', but they have other words for that kind of thing now, if you take my meaning. And people don't look the other way anymore, not most of the time anyway. I knew Cooke wasn't her real name."

"Any idea – "

"No, my dear, I'm sorry. I have no idea what her real name was."

"But she did have a son?"

"It's the oddest thing. I heard her tell people that Ashton was an only child, but there was one time – we had treated ourselves to a spa – it was her birthday, and I _insisted_ that she do something for herself. And, well, we had a few martinis – I do hope that doesn't shock you. And she let a few things slip." Ginny shook her head sadly. "I don't think she meant to say anything. I always wondered if the boy had died, and poor Anne had to get away before she lost Ashton as well. Her husband really was a horrible man."

They emerged into the main section of the mall, overflowing with chattering consumers. Ginny shook herself as if trying to dislodge a swarm of gnats, and pointed. "Oh, look. There's that sweet little girl again."

There was a mirrored wall directly facing them, on the other side of a broad aisle set with planters full of sagging shrubs and benches full of sagging shoppers. Mac saw Ginny's last set of customers, the little girl now pirouetting in front of the mirror, shaking her head to make the rhinestones on her new finery glitter even more.

As he looked at the mirror, there was a flash of light from somewhere deep inside it, right at his eye level.

_One-way mirror – aw, crap – !_ Mac grabbed Ginny and shoved her sideways and down, leaped sideways himself. Some part of his mind wondered if he was being paranoid and jumpy, making himself ridiculous. The fret lasted less than a second.

The mirrored wall shivered and collapsed into shards, the crash of the waterfall of broken glass echoing through the mall as the bullet whined past Mac's head.

The crack of the shot resonated behind its passage. If he hadn't sidestepped – if he hadn't seen the flash of light from the scope of the sniper's rifle – the bullet would have gone into his brain.

The little girl screamed and cowered as her mother grabbed her, the shoppers ran in blind panic, and Mac charged past them into the empty room behind the shattered wall. The assassin hadn't waited once he knew his shot was ruined; an open door led to an empty access corridor, and out into the open parking lot beyond.

MacGyver stood stymied in the doorway, his hands clenching and unclenching in frustration, as the mall's security forces came bustling up, full of confusion and demands and time-consuming questions. Mac sighed and pulled out his cell phone, hitting the speed dial for Nikki. Time for the bureaucrats to reassure each other that he wasn't really dangerous. No time to chase the assassin, and no point; following that trail would be worse than tracking smoke over water.

_Crap!_

- x -

This time, there were fewer hoops to jump through in getting in to see Sonja Chapel. Their credentials were still checked thoroughly, the scans were mandatory; but visitors weren't usually admitted into the infirmary wing at all. Nikki had worked another bureaucratic miracle, the kind Pete used to do.

Sonja was lying on her back in the infirmary bed, staring at the ceiling. She tried to pretend that she wasn't aware of MacGyver's presence, but they both knew she was faking it from the moment the door opened. She gave up the attempt after a few minutes.

"Come to gloat?" Her voice was raspy. Mac could see the livid bruises on the pale, flabby skin of her neck. "I hear it's your fault I'm still alive."

"It was an easy guess. Once you set me up for the hit, you were expendable."

"Yeah." Sonja shifted restlessly. "I did figure that one out."

"You shoulda been able to see it coming fifty miles away. I figured it out right after the hit failed – lucky for you, we were in time to call up the warden and tell her you were the next target."

"I suppose I'm grateful that she listened."

"The warden doesn't have much time for stories about conspiracies and master assassins, but she gets revenge _real_ clearly. And she doesn't like it when her inmates kill each other. It looks bad on her record. And it makes the other prisoners nervous."

"Nobody's perfect," Sonja muttered. "Except Murdoc. Except when it came to you."

"What was the bait, Sonja? A promise to let you live? It musta been that. What'd they do, let you think Murdoc was free to act now that Pete Thornton's dead? Was that the story?"

"MacGyver, you don't _understand _– okay, you know what it's like to have Murdoc after you. God, you know all about that if anyone does. But to be _stuck_ in a place like this – a fucking sitting duck – with that nutjob on the loose – "

Mac interrupted. "You _do_ know that this isn't Murdoc, right?"

"Well, duh. He cleans up pretty, but even Murdoc can't actually infiltrate a women's prison. He got in touch with me through one of my yardmates, Brenda – I think you must've figured that out – "

"Yeah, we had the warden check all the contacts and visitors each of them had for the last eighteen months. It was pretty easy to find, since we knew what we were looking for."

"He must've dug up some pretty heavy leverage on her, to get her to try to kill for him. If you hadn't warned them to be on the lookout for an attack . . . " Sonja ran a hand across her purple-stained throat.

"You're welcome. But you're _not listening_. This. Isn't. Murdoc." MacGyver leaned over her. "Murdoc's _dead_, Sonja. He died in Peru in 1996."

"Sure." She looked past him and sneered at the ceiling. "Give it a break, MacGyver. I've heard it all before – rumours of Murdoc's death _always_ turn out to be greatly exaggerated."

"This time it's true."

In spite of her weakness, Sonja half-sat up to study MacGyver's face, denial stamped on her own. She wavered, unsettled by what she saw. "You're sure – "

"_I saw his body_." MacGyver swallowed. His eyes were dark burning coals. "I _buried_ it."

Sonja lay back on the hospital bed, her eyes tight shut, tears welling out from under the lids.

"Sonja." MacGyver wished he didn't have to push like this – but there were lives at stake. His, for starters. "We're being targeted by someone else. Somebody's trying to pick up on Murdoc's reputation. _Somebody_ thinks he's Murdoc's heir." Mac leaned over her. "Sonja. Did Murdoc have any kids?"

"_No_." Her voice was flat and absolute. "You saw how he was about his sister. Kids? He'd've drowned them at birth. He couldn't afford to give _anyone_ that kind of leverage."

"Was Ashton really his sister?"

A moment's hesitation, and she spoke again. "Yes. His half-sister."

"Okay. Where's his mother? Is she still alive?"

"I don't know. She might be."

"How about his real name?"

Sonja had shut her eyes tightly. "I know his father's name."

"That's a start."

- x -

Nikki's taste in cars was still top-notch: she was driving a Ferrari these days, a 430 Scuderia, although she'd progressed from lipstick-red to a deep, rich burgundy with a metallic black undertone. Her hands were as light and expert as ever on the wheel as she drove MacGyver to the Los Angeles International Airport, listening as he talked.

"Sonja said the father's name was Murry. Dr. Murry – she didn't remember the first name. Edwin or something like that. English. Lived in the greater London area - St. John's Wood, she thinks. He died in a house fire back in the early sixties."

" 'Doctor' Murry?"

"Yeah. Physician."

"As in, 'Mur-doc'?"

"It could be. She said Murdoc's mom – his real mom – yeah, talk about a scary notion – is still alive, and gave me that name too – Willis is tracking her down now."

Nikki's Bluetooth emitted a single chirp, and she replied. "Nikki. Go."

Mac couldn't hear the voice on the other end, but he saw Nikki smile as she listened. "All set, then? Good job." Her tone was warm and approving. "No, take a cab to the airport. I'll leave the car in short-term parking. The sooner you get there, the less it'll cost you to buy it back." The smile deepened as she listened again. "You bet I'm taking it out of your bonus."

The call ended, and she glanced sideways at MacGyver, who was looking stubborn. "Our tickets will be waiting for us, and _yes_, I'm coming along whether you argue or not. You can decide how much breath you want to waste. Are you going to check a bag, or leave your pocketknife behind?"

"I _hate_ checking a bag."

"Thought so. I don't suppose you've got spare knives stashed in the major airport terminals around the world?"

"No."

"That's a shame. Maybe you should. I don't think air travel security's going to get any more relaxed, after all."

Mac let out his breath in an exasperated whuff. "Won't a sudden trip to the UK kinda mess up your schedule?"

"MacGyver, the only break I'll have in my regular work is going to be for the duration of the flight. At least I'll be free from phone calls then." Nikki somehow managed to glare at her own Bluetooth earpiece out of the corner of her eye. "I'm looking forward to it. I have my bag and my laptop with me. _And_ my passport. And _yes_, I'm still fully certified as a field operative."

Mac grinned. "I'm not. You gonna try to stop me on that account?"

"I'm going to kick your butt when this is all over till you recertify."

"Y'know, you could just unplug yourself. Toss that earpiece out the window. Ever think of that?"

"All the time." Nikki smiled, a spark of mischief glinting in her eyes. "There's a conspiracy at Phoenix this year – on April first, all my operatives are going to Tweet me their reports. All day long."

"Are you _kidding?_"

"Nope. And don't you _dare_ let on that I know about it."

"Why not?"

"That would spoil it, MacGyver! I can hardly wait to see what they do."

"Is Sam gonna be part of it?"

"Are _you_ kidding? I'm pretty sure it was his idea."

- x -

MacGyver fell silent again as they drew near the airport. Nikki looked over at him and frowned. "Oh, sure. You tell _me_ to unplug, and now look at you. What are you doing?"

Mac had his customised Blackberry in his hands, his thumbs busy on the keys. "Texting Sam."

"You think the copycat will go after him?" She felt a sudden sickness in the pit of her stomach. Sam wasn't nearly as vulnerable as –

"Maybe. Or Lisa, or the girls. Time for a little family solidarity. At least we know I'm the real target."

"Yeah, no kidding. So much for staying clean and cautious . . . if he'd stuck to the clean-kill, no-witnesses approach – "

"Oh, that wouldn't have been good enough." Mac's tone was sharp and brittle as shattered glass. "He wants to make a nice big splash. Lay claim to Murdoc's rep once and for all. What could be better than something public – _real_ public? 'Look at me! I killed MacGyver! In public, in front of a hundred witnesses!' Well, he's got something else in common with Murdoc now, along with the arrogance. He _screwed up_."

- - x - -_  
_


	13. Antecedent

**Reverb**

_Thirteen: Antecedent  
_

- x -_  
_

The road was perfectly straight, as straight as the laser sights on a rifle. It ran straight on to the horizon, mile after mile of empty landscape. MacGyver glanced down at the gas gauge on his motorcycle; they were making good time on the eternal road, but sooner or later they were going to run out of gas. The cycles left a trail of dust behind – white dust from China, red dust from Nevada, black volcanic dust from Hawaii, yellow dust from the Empty Quarter.

Mac looked to his right, where a single rock sat in the middle of an empty plain. He pointed it out to Sam. "Check it out," he called over the roar of the motorcycles. "Still life with ninjas."

Sam checked his horse and frowned at the rock. They weren't riding motorcycles after all, it seemed; the horses were the lovely Peruvian _paso_ horses, with the smooth gait that felt like floating. Lisa was riding with Sam, curled up in front of him on the huge white stallion with her arms around him possessively. She couldn't possibly be comfortable in that position, and Mac wondered how long she'd be able to hold it.

"Ninjas, or assassins?" Sam asked.

"Isn't it the same thing?" asked Lisa.

"Not in the least," Murdoc scolded. He was riding a tall black horse, clutching at the mane with his one hand. Under the big black cowboy hat, his face was clean-shaven and horribly scarred from fire and explosion and searing inner hatred. His hand was bloodstained, and his khaki shirt was soaked with blood front and back. "All ninjas are assassins, but not all assassins are ninjas."

Lisa squirmed, trying to find a more comfortable place to sit. "Sam, we'd better hurry. We need to pick our princesses up from school before the mad scientists kidnap them."

"Babe, I already told you. The kids are mad scientists already. The whole family is."

"You sure?"

"Yup. I'm gonna get Petra a cyclotron for her birthday."

Mac grinned. Sam was too late; he and Pete had already installed one in the basement. They needed to put a big shiny bow on it, though. He looked over at Murdoc. "What the heck are you still doin' here?"

Murdoc smirked. "Casting a long shadow over your grave."

"Would you cut it out already? You're dead. And I'm not."

"Are you sure?" Murdoc drew a gun with the hand that wasn't there any more, aimed it at MacGyver, cocked it and held it steady.

"_Yes_. Now put that away. That's the wrong hand. Quit cheating."

"You can't stop me."

"I already did. Would you just stay dead for once? It got old a long time ago."

"You've gotten old, MacGyver. And I haven't. The grave's a fine and private place."

Mac pressed his knees into the horse's flanks, drawing closer to Murdoc and the empty black eye of the gun. "How'd you survive the fall off the Widowmaker?"

Murdoc pouted. "I can't tell you _that_! That would be _cheating_." He pulled the trigger.

MacGyver flinched away from the crack of the pistol shot, and woke up. Across the aisle of the airplane, a woman in business clothes had nodded off, dropping her iPod onto her tray table with a clatter.

Mac checked his watch. He'd already set it ahead to London time. The plane was still a few hours out from Heathrow, but he didn't feel like sleeping any more, not if it was going to be like that. His legs were cramped and his right knee was throbbing.

He'd have liked to get up and walk up and down the aisle until his knee stopped shouting, or at least settled down to a dull roar; but Nikki was soundly asleep beside him, and her head had slid sideways and was now planted firmly on his shoulder, and he really liked the way it felt. Instead, he shifted his legs, waggled his feet back and forth, flexed both hands until he could feel something like normal circulation again.

He looked down at Nikki's head, noticing the strands of white, traces of foam in the dark waves of her hair. There seemed to be more of them than he remembered – not that he'd been keeping track. Of course, riding herd on the insane complexity of the Phoenix Ops department, with its unruly stable of operatives – including Sam – would be enough to turn anybody's hair white. Especially after losing Pete. And there'd be that loss itself, which must have been worth a few white hairs on its own – Mac's mind shied away from the thought like a spooked horse.

He had slid his notebook laptop into the seatback pocket before he nodded off; now he reached out carefully to try to retrieve it without waking Nikki up. Maybe her hair had started going white a few years back, like his had, and he hadn't noticed. He hadn't seen a lot of her after she'd remarried. Maybe she'd dyed it at first, and had stopped.

He managed to fish the notebook out and get the tray table down. It helped having long arms, even though the long legs were a handicap just at the moment. The plane had wireless service, and he'd already taken advantage of it earlier to access the Phoenix intranet and to check his email – nothing from Willis yet on the history of the Murry family, or the identity and current whereabouts of Murdoc's mother. Murdoc's . . . mother. _Sheesh._

And nothing from Sam yet. _Dang._

The notebook was still booting up when he became aware that Nikki's eyes were open. He glanced sideways to see her apparently wide awake, watching him intently. "What?"

She almost blushed. "Don't mind me – I was just hoping to settle one of the great burning debates at Phoenix."

"Huh?"

"_Do_ you use a Mac?"

"Um, no. Not these days." Mac made a gesture towards his notebook. "Linux."

Nikki pulled a face. "It figures." She stretched and yawned, glanced out of habit at her wrist. Wordlessly, Mac held out his own wrist so she could see his watch.

She grimaced. "Hell. We're going to get there too late in the evening local time to do more than get checked into our hotel. We'll have to get started tomorrow. Anything from Willis yet?"

"Not last I checked." He turned back to his notebook as Nikki dug hers out and booted it up.

It was funny, sitting side by side like this, hearing the rapid patter of her fingers on her own keyboard so close by. Pete had done hunt-and-peck keyboarding for years, and had then startled everyone by learning to touch-type after the blindness upped the stakes on him.

And there, his thoughts had circled back to Pete again. The project he'd retrieved from the Phoenix intranet, a proposal for a new method of electronic tagging and tracking of migrating songbirds, wasn't really much of a distraction. Nikki was a distraction, but of a different sort. And since she wasn't picking a fight with him just at the moment, the distraction wasn't all that effective.

That was funny, too, how they'd somehow ended up as friends. He guessed he had Murdoc of all people to thank for that unlikely event – when he and Nikki had both come down off the Widowmaker alive, something had changed; the wrangling hadn't seemed all that important any more. The arguments hadn't stopped, but it had eventually turned into friendly tussling, without the push to score points off each other. If Penny was the sister who needed looking after, Nikki was someone he could tease, someone who always gave as good as she got. Except that he had never been able to think of her as a sister.

Then she had started climbing the ladder at Phoenix, and he hadn't seen much of her for several years, not till Pete brought her back to LA and enthroned her in Ops Central as his designated successor. Before that, Nikki had been transferred to New York, then to Europe, then back to Washington DC to take over the satellite office there – but she'd stayed in touch when she could.

She'd sent him classic Westerns, first on videotape, then on DVD, every Christmas like clockwork. A lot of them had been duplicates of ones he already had, but he'd never told her that. He'd gotten into the habit of staying quiet around her, unless it was really necessary. When she'd married Joel Haines, he'd sent them a toaster for a wedding present and kept his mouth shut.

Nikki had been typing furiously – so much so that MacGyver wondered if she was emailing reprimands. She sat back with a whuff and then glanced at Mac.

"Why're you looking at me like that?"

He started, feeling a little foolish. "I was just wonderin' what happened to that toaster I gave you."

"I still have it." She smiled, but there was an edge to the smile.

"You kept it when you split up?"

"Joel never liked it anyway – I think he was spooked by that big red button you put on the side. The one that said 'Boom'."

"But all that button actually did was make the toast pop up," Mac protested.

"Well, of course. I thought it was funny as hell, but Joel hated it. I should've taken that as a warning." The smile had faded. "He didn't like you, you know."

"It was mutual."

"You never said anything."

"No point. You wouldn't've listened."

Nikki sighed. "You're right about that one." She smiled, genuinely this time, at Mac's expression. "What? You can't believe I just admitted that you were right about something?"

"You gotta admit, it's not what I'm used to."

She shrugged. "Well, you are. Right, I mean. And you were. How much do you know about what happened?"

"Well, I didn't really listen to the rumours all that closely – but they said you kicked him out and changed the locks."

"Not exactly," Nikki said. "Well, not in that order. I changed the locks first."

- x -

"Oh, give me a break! You've got to be kidding!" Nikki turned from the hotel clerk she'd been berating to glower at Mac. "And _you'd_ better not be laughing!"

Mac held up both hands to ward her off. "Do I look like I'm laughing? I don't think it's funny at all!"

The clerk cleared his throat. "Ma'am, if a mistake has been made, I do apologise. Our records show that the reservation is for only one room, a suite. But if your companion requires a separate room – "

"Nikki." MacGyver tugged on her arm and drew her a few feet away from the front desk. He drew a deep breath, bracing himself. "Nikki, he said a suite, right? There's probably a couch. I can sleep there."

"I assure you, sir, we _can_ accommodate you suitably – " the clerk tried to interrupt.

Nikki ignored him, studying Mac's face. "Why?"

"I don't know. Just – " Mac gestured vaguely. "Call it a bad feeling. Call it paranoia. Blame Murdoc. But let's not get split up just now, okay?"

She frowned, then nodded slowly. "Okay. We'll do it your way." She shook her head at Mac's look of astonishment. "But when I get back to LA, I'm going to fry my assistant over a slow fire."

As the elevator climbed towards their floor, MacGyver asked, "Say, how's Malika doing? She's still interning at Phoenix, right?"

Nikki blinked at him. "Interning? MacGyver, I hired her on full-time. Four months ago. I told you at the time."

"You did? You sure?"

"Um, yes. Well, pretty sure. Maybe not . . . " Nikki looked uncomfortable.

"So what she's doing now?" Malika Ngale was one of the most promising kids to come out of the Challengers Club in the last few years. Mac had been pleased when she'd won an internship, and even more pleased when Nikki had taken the girl on as support for her own PA.

Nikki snorted. "Right at this moment, she's probably gloating over the messed-up reservation and hoping it leads to a night of epic romance."

"Huh?"

"MacGyver, I hired her as my new assistant."

"What? What happened to the old one – um, Amanda?"

Nikki raised an eyebrow. "You really _didn't_ listen to the rumours, did you? She's the reason I changed the locks on Joel."

- x -_  
_

_When I was a kid, hunting was part of how people lived. _

_My grampa Harry told me, before the first time he and my dad ever took me hunting, 'Don't you ever go huntin' unless you __need__ what you're huntin' for. And don't ever forget that you might have to go hungry anyways.'_

_Aw, __man__. I'm older now than Harry was when he first told me that. Jeez._

Mac had been in London for one full day, and the bad feeling was still there, even though nothing had happened. He still had friends in England, and he'd have liked to go see them – but not with a massive target plastered across his back. He hadn't been in London for several years, but it hadn't changed much that he could tell – except for fewer people smoking; that was a real improvement.

The bureaucratic maze hadn't changed either, unless it had ossified even more. Navigating it, hunting out information, was still maddeningly slow. Willis was having better luck, and he wasn't even on the same continent.

"I found the obituary in the _Times_ archive, Mac. And the police report was in the HOLMES database at Scotland Yard. August 11th, 1966. Dr. Edwin Murry's body was found in the remains of his home after a particularly messy fire – very destructive; the firefighters had to concentrate on keeping it from spreading. No chance of saving the house itself. Cause of death given as heart attack, although it sounds like there wasn't much left to autopsy. Identification was made through dental records. The damage from the fire was all post-mortem, so they figured he must have been dead before it started. The fire was judged accidental – Murry was a heavy smoker. Keeled over with a lit cigarette in his hand and the place went up in flames."

They had Willis on a video link through Nikki's laptop. At least Mac could be certain the conversation was secure – he and Willis had written the VOI protocol themselves.

"Doctors who smoke." Mac made a face.

"It was the sixties," Nikki said. "What about surviving family? What did it say?"

"That's the funny part. There should be more, but that's it."

"_Nothing?_ You've got to be kidding!" she exploded.

MacGyver leaned back in his chair and rubbed his face with both hands. "Aw, _man_. You think the records have been scrubbed?"

"I'm not sure. But there's _got_ to be more than that. Nikki, can you get me clearance to access HOLMES again? There should be a missing persons report from when the wife and daughter vanished."

"I'll get it set up for tomorrow, before I fly out to Geneva," Nikki said. "And Willis, do _not_ 'improvise' your way into the medical records in the National Health Services databases, okay? You either, MacGyver."

Mac glowered at her. "I suppose by 'improvise' you mean 'hack', huh?"

"Damned right I do. I can get you clearance legitimately, it'll just – "

" – take time, and we do not _have_ time, Nikki, he's coming after us. After _me_. I _know_ it."

"Hacking takes time too, MacGyver. I'm not saying it's a bad approach – "

"You're not?"

" – it's just the wrong one right now."

- x -_  
_

_Harry couldn't teach me about how it feels to be hunted myself. I learned that on my own . . . good thing I'm a quick learner._

_There's an old backwoods joke about the quick and the dead, but the joke stopped being funny real fast during my first game of no-holds-barred jungle hide-and-seek._

_Of course I was a hunter too this time – hunting for information, tracking down a dead man and a missing woman, hunting in the past for someone who I still couldn't quite believe had ever been a child. But I had to keep watching my own back as well . . . trying to smell the moment when the other hunter cut my trail._

Two days, and nothing had happened. Mac had spent a long, fruitless day in the dusty back rooms of the Marylebone Mercury, combing through microfiches of back issues – the local paper, although boasting a long history, was too small and starved for manpower to have digitised their extensive archives yet.

_Find anything?_

_Yeah, a shop that sells real good vegetarian curry._ Mac's thumbs flicked on the Blackberry as he walked along Kilburn High Road.

_:P In St Johns Wood?_ Willis typed.

_No, Kilburn._

_You're doing SDRs?_

_Yup._

He'd fallen seamlessly back into the old habits of tradecraft; he'd already changed hotel rooms, and he'd have liked to change hotels. Another two days, and he would, whether Nikki liked it or not. The London Carlton was close to St. John's Wood and not too inconvenient for the heart of London, where the group that ran the local paper had its non-local central office. But the convenience came at a price that felt steeper with every day that passed.

He was doing a Surveillance Detection Run now, returning to the hotel by riding past the Maida Vale stop to the next Tube station and backtracking on foot. It meant a long walk down the High Road, with zigzags into side streets past grotty housing estates reeking of car fumes. But he somehow felt more comfortable in the shabby grime of Kilburn. It was the kind of place where he could become invisible easily, blending in, getting the feel of the crowds and the flow of movement.

Even in chat with Willis, most of Mac's attention was focussed on the street around him, noting and cataloguing the passers-by, mentally tagging the cars, alert for unusual patterns of behaviour. He was resisting the impulse to keep a running tally of how many closed-circuit cameras he spotted. London was _infested_ with the danged things, and they didn't make him feel safe at all, they made him feel claustrophobic.

Willis was typing again. _I saw you downloaded the files I left you._

_Yeah. Thx. Nikki's files on the copycat didn't have all the details._ Mac smiled in spite of his grim mood. He'd never thought of Willis as a 'hunting buddy', but there it was: they had been doing this together for over twenty years.

_Did you spot anything new?_

_Not exactly. I'm guessing a couple things. I think it's a guy._

_Y?_ Willis had picked up some texting shortcuts from his daughter, although he usually forgot to use them. Mac wished he'd forget all the time.

_A woman doesn't show off the same way._

_Sounds a bit sexist._

_You think I care about being PC right now?_

_Good point._

_This guy's a showoff. And a blowhard._

_And a killer, Mac._

_And a kid. Well, young. I think he's under 30. I'm sure he's under 40. And don't ask me why I think that._

_k._

It was a few minutes before Willis said anything more. MacGyver paused to check his backtrail, stepping sideways into the doorway of yet another store selling cheap imported goods.

_How's Nikki doing?_ Willis asked.

Nikki had spent a few hours at Phoenix' main European office in Westminster, and then flown to Geneva, hoping to track down someone who might remember Ashton Cooke. MacGyver was pessimistic about her chances, but it was worth a try. _She's working off the old records from when we originally investigated Ashton's death, _he replied._ She thinks she oughta be able to find somebody – medics maybe, search and rescue types, or resort staff._

_Kinda like looking for a needle in a haystack._

_Or a body under an avalanche._ Mac shivered in spite of himself, wishing the image hadn't jumped into his memory like that.

- x -_  
_

_A buddy of Harry's, the first real good Native tracker I ever met, liked to say that a hunter should be able to think __like__ prey without ever making the mistake of thinking that you __were__ prey yourself. Old Tobey knew what he was talking about – he'd had one hunt get real dicey when he cut the track of a grizzly, tried to circle around behind it, and then realised it was circling around behind him. He said it turned out all right because the bear decided it really only wanted to be left alone; but it could have changed its mind._

_Hunters – successful hunters – learn a lot about their prey as they hunt. They have to._

_I don't think hunters ever start to guess just how much the quarry learns about them while it's being hunted._

Three days, and nothing had happened. At the end of the day, MacGyver walked a different route back to the hotel from the neighbourhood of St. John's Wood. The houses there were meticulously maintained, many of them ensconced in regal splendour within impeccable gardens. The cars that passed him were shiny and expensive, and he couldn't shake the feeling that the staff in the fancy boutiques he passed were eyeing him suspiciously. Even the ubiquitous closed-circuit cameras seemed to be glowering at him.

_Mac. How bout the local cop shop? There might be someone there who remembers the fire._

_After 43 years?_

_Worth a try!_

_Yeah, I know. I tried. Nada. You?_

_Nikki got Scotland Yard to give me access to the HOLMES database again. It took me a while to find it, but the missing persons report is there. In August of 1964, Murry reported his wife, Anne, had disappeared with their baby girl, Ashton._

_Anne Cooke._

_Yup._

_Good going, Willis. So how come you're finding more from half a planet away than I can find on the ground?_

_Virtuous living?_

_Yeah, right. So what then? _

_: ( Nothing._

_*What*?_

_Nothing, Mac. Zip. No further reports. No investigation._

_You gotta be kidding. A man's wife and child vanish, and the cops do *nothing*?_

_I know damned well it doesn't make sense! Look, hotshot, I'm copying the files into your lockbox on the Phoenix intranet. Download them yourself and see if I missed anything._

Mac winced. It took a lot to push Willis into defensiveness._ I'm sure you didn't miss anything. But I'd like to look anyway._

_No problemo. So just what've you been doing to keep out of trouble?_

_Went to the address where the fire was. It's been rebuilt. Late 60s. Butt-ugly house. Didn't learn anything._

_No neighbours with conveniently long memories?_

_Nobody around there seems to feel chatty._

_What, you can't find a fridge or a TV or something to fix? Charm the lonely housewives of Wellington Road?_

_Gimme a break. In that stretch of London, they throw 'em out and buy new ones when the old ones get dusty._

_Maybe you're short on curb appeal, Mac. How long since you had a haircut?_

_:P_

Mac had stopped at an intersection, wondering momentarily why it looked so familiar. _Hey, Willis. Guess what. I'm about to cross Abbey Road._

An indicator flashed in the chat client, and a new name appeared. Nikki had logged in from Geneva. _Anything new?_

_Not since the last time you asked,_ Mac replied.

_Nothing at the address itself? The neighbours?_

_Wealthy amnesiacs and people who don't want to be bothered. You might have better luck._

_MacGyver, Willis, I had an idea. You keep on hitting dead ends in the official records._

_Yeah. It smells like a cover-up. But I can't figure out how Murdoc could've scrubbed that much data._

_Maybe it wasn't Murdoc's work. It was a different era. Mac, tomorrow, go check the tabloids._

_WHAT?_

_Check their archives. Look, the man was a respected physician, he had a kid by another woman, and his wife ran out on him. Then he died in a fire, leaving a domestic mess behind. The police accepted it as an accident, the regular papers maintained a polite silence, nobody wants to remember it years later – but if there was any muck to rake, London has some of the best muckrakers on the planet._

_Huh._ That was Willis.

_*Yeah.* _That was Mac.

- x -_  
_

_When you know you're being hunted, it makes everything look and feel different. Even the air smells different, in a way. Of course, in London, the air always smells like car exhaust. But never mind that._

_The funny thing was, it didn't feel the way you'd think it oughta – I wasn't having nightmares, or jumping at every sound, or flinching from shadows. I knew he was out there somewhere, and that sooner or later he'd come within range, and I'd have a chance of seeing him. Catching him. It's one thing to be bait, and another to be the trap. Murdoc set enough traps for me, I oughta know the drill by now._

_It was hard to admit it, but I guess I probably felt more alive than I had in months._

On the fourth morning, MacGyver slipped out of the Carlton by the delivery entrance again. He was still at the same hotel; he hadn't even changed rooms again yet – he was afraid that another room change would make him conspicuous, and the last thing he wanted was to be the centre of remarks among the bell staff.

Instead of shifting ground, he'd entrenched, in a way. Mac stopped on the way out to chat with Liene, the head of housekeeping. He'd made her acquaintance the second evening; most of the staff were Polish, but she was Latvian. Her English was sketchy and her Russian was worse – she'd learned it as a child, when it had still been mandatory under Soviet rule, and done her best to forget it after the USSR collapsed. Since his own Russian had rusted solid, they muddled along mostly in a mixture of simple English and occasional rounds of gestural charades. But he was certain that she'd mention it if anyone had been asking questions.

"Where your lady friend? She come back soon?"

"Um, actually, she's my boss."

"Boss lady? Oh ho. If I your boss, you not have to work very hard."

Mac turned beet red under his tan and retreated towards the areaway. Not fast enough; he jumped with a surprised yelp when she snapped a towel at his rear end. He shook a threatening finger at her as she laughed and headed back down the hallway.

- x -_  
_

"Pay dirt, Willis. Nikki nailed it – I found stuff on the fire in two of the tabloids, and – what? Yes, of course it's a secure line. I'm at the Phoenix offices in London." Mac shifted the receiver from one ear to the other and rubbed his tired eyes. It felt good to be able to talk freely, and even better not to be peering at a lit screen. He didn't feel up to computer-based communication after another long day of sifting through microfiches.

"Her name was Jacqueline Bell. She was living with Murry at the time of the fire and using his name, but they weren't married – the Express called her Jacqui Bell, and the Evening Standard called her Jacqueline 'Murry' and put the last name in quotes, real snide."

"The fire was in 1966 – Anne Murry disappeared in 1964 – there hadn't been enough time for Murry to claim abandonment and file for divorce," Willis mused.

"Yeah. The tabloids had a field day with that. Jacqueline was real young, too – she musta been in her teens when Murdoc was born. They didn't give an exact age – and they usually do, you know; so they hinted, and hinted even harder about her profession. She musta been either a stripper or a prostitute."

"Or both?"

"Well, yeah."

"Anything on Murdoc?"

"You mean, like his _name_? I wish. No, only one story even mentioned the kid. They were too busy gloating about the wages of sin." Mac rubbed his face again.

"Was she in the house when the fire broke out?"

"No. Probably lucky for her. She was in the hospital."

"Funny kind of luck. Why was she – ?"

"Seems she fell down the stairs. Black eye, bruises, broken nose, broken wrist . . . "

"Oh, _hell_. Or maybe she walked into a door? Didn't Murdoc hint something along those lines about his father?"

"Yeah. And he also said that he didn't kill him."

"Did you believe him?"

"Are you kidding? I'm wonderin' about that fire."

"If Murry was consistently abusive, there should be a history of hospital visits – even if the neighbours were looking the other way. If he beat up his son as well, the medical records will have a name. Mac, can you get me copies of the articles? Let me guess – they were still on microfiche, huh?"

"Yeah. All they could give me at the tabloid offices was hard copy printouts – they're being scanned right now to send to you." When the shifting political climate in the US had turned more hostile to environmental studies, much of Phoenix' research had been moved overseas. Mac still wasn't used to the change in available resources, but he was grateful for it. "Aisha's gonna be working on it from this end; she thinks she can get somewhere by tryin' to trace housing records. And there might be a police record, too. Do you know Aisha? Oh. She's that good, huh? Okay. Great."

A tap on his shoulder, and a wave – Aisha Chadhar, the head of research for the London office, was signalling him.

"Mr. MacGyver, there is another call for you, line three – it's _Ms. Carpenter _– I mean Ms. _Haines!_" She reddened. Mac had been more than a little surprised to learn how much awe Nikki inspired in the London office.

He fumbled with the unfamiliar, overly complicated phone system. "Aw, _man_ . . . " He looked guiltily at Aisha as the wrong light went out.

"Not to worry, Mr. MacGyver. I will call Mr. Willis back while you are talking to Ms. Haines."

"Um, thanks. Nikki? Where are you?"

"Just about to exfiltrate myself from Heathrow. The flight was delayed." Nikki had given up on the unpromising search in Geneva, now that the London trail was getting warmer.

"Any sign of a tail or anything?"

The answer was half-drowned in a buzz of static. " – hard to say. At one point I wondered, but I'm not sure whether I lost the tail or never had it to begin with. It's not so – "

"Nikki, your signal's breakin' up."

Mac winced and held the receiver away from his ear as a loud burst of static suddenly resolved into a clearly heard string of creative obscenities. "Yikes."

"Is this better?"

"Depends on what you mean by 'better'. I could hear that last bit just fine."

"Hell. I don't think this headset's anywhere near as compatible overseas as my last one. I'm headed for the hotel, Mac. Just fill me in when you get there, okay?"

"You got it."

- x -_  
_

Once out of the Underground on the way back, Mac tried to call the hotel room. He'd picked a route for his SDR that would take him past his new favourite curry shop, but he realised he hadn't a clue what, if anything, Nikki might want from there.

No answer; no answer on her cell phone either. _That's funny. She oughta be there by now . . ._ he skipped the curry shop, cut the anti-surveillance exercise short, slipped into the hotel by the delivery entrance and hurried up the fire stairs.

Nikki was there all right. She was kneeling on the floor on the far side of the hotel room, her hands tied behind her, a gag in her mouth and a knife at her throat. Behind her stood the slight, compact form of a man in black jeans and a black leather jacket.

In spite of himself, even knowing it was impossible, MacGyver almost expected to see Murdoc's face. The face _was_ vaguely familiar, weirdly known – it might have taken a harder search through his memory, except for the sudden mental click as understanding locked in. Who else could it have been?

"Hiya, Felix." Mac took a few casual steps into the room. "Been a few years. I see you haven't changed much."

Félix Sandoval smirked. Mac's skin crawled; the smile was Murdoc's. _ What do you think, Master Félix? Will you miss our little games?_

"You may as well call me Murdoc, MacGyver. The rest of the world will call me that soon enough."

The voice was disturbingly similar. The English was fluent and the accent mostly British, with only a lingering trace of the Peruvian accent in a vowel here and there. The arrogance and insouciance were definitely there.

He must have been waiting for Nikki when she arrived – her coat was lying crumpled in front of the closet, as if she'd dropped it when he jumped her. Her briefcase was sitting next to the coffee table in front of the couch. She was disheveled and her face was bruised; Mac was glad to see that Félix' face was also marked. He must have tidied his clothing after the scuffle, but there were signs of the fight if you looked. Nikki hadn't gone down easily.

A handgun lay on the coffee table, a Beretta 92. For a moment, Mac wondered if it was Nikki's – but she wouldn't have been carrying a gun, not fresh off an airplane.

Mac took a few more steps towards the deadly tableau, carefully edging just a bit sideways as he moved. "I don't get it, Felix. Murdoc killed your father. Why do you want to _become_ him?"

Félix glared. His other hand, the one that wasn't holding the knife, was buried in Nikki's hair; he clenched his black-gloved fingers, and Nikki let out a muffled sound of pain through her gag.

"My father was a bastard son of a bitch who betrayed my mother. He _deserved_ to die. Señor Murdoc understood."

He jerked Nikki to her feet, turning to keep facing Mac as he continued to circle. Nikki grunted and stood, swaying slightly.

"Sorry about that, Grandma. Was that hard for your old knees to take? You should have prayed more when you had the chance." Félix smiled again, Murdoc's smile, and Mac's stomach recoiled violently and tied itself into knots. "Except she's not a grandma at all. It's MacGyver here who's the grandparent, aren't you? Those two sweet little girls."

Mac made sure that his voice was under control, measured and even. It wasn't easy. "We all know you're after me, not her. So what's it gonna take?"

Another smile, another lurch of the stomach. "Let's begin with the truth. You took Murdoc away that night, and he was never seen again. Did you kill him?"

"No."

"Who did?"

"Sendero." Mac met Félix' eyes, matched his gaze without flinching. Finally, the young man nodded.

"You saw the body?"

"Yes." Mac swallowed

"You're certain?"

"I buried him," Mac murmured. "In Peru."

"Good. We understand each other."

"Wait a minute." Mac took another two careful steps towards them. "You already knew that, didn't you?"

"It was easy enough to guess. _You_ would never have killed him – you're too weak to be a killer. He told me this. He talked about you a great deal."

"I'll just bet."

"He told me many things." Félix bared his teeth in a mirthless grin that was all his own. "The gun on the table. Pick it up."

"_What?_"

"Pick it up, or I'll start killing her." He pulled hard on Nikki's hair, drawing her head back and exposing her throat. The knife gleamed against the white skin.

"Okay, okay!" Mac reached out his hand, his fingers dragging as if forced through thick mud. He lifted the Beretta slowly, his fingers curving around the grip, feeling the heft in his hand. In basic training, decades ago, they'd discovered he was a natural marksman. They'd wanted to train him as a sniper. A professional killer. The memory still burned.

"You can't do it, can you?" Félix laughed. "Old man. You're hardly worth killing. How long have you been coasting on your reputation, Grandpa?"

MacGyver looked at Félix, his eyes wide with desperation, then stared down at the gun in his lax hand. His glance flicked up just enough to catch Nikki's eye, and he saw with relief the understanding in her look. _Whatever you've got, try it._

Mac fumbled with the pistol, cocked it clumsily, then looked up at the smirking assassin again. "Please . . . you've got no idea – " he gestured aimlessly with the gun, and pulled the trigger. The precisely aimed shot whined past Félix' head, missing his ear by two inches.

The crack of the shot seemed deafening; the hotel room décor was modern and sleek, with glossy polished surfaces everywhere, and the echo of the report seemed to reverberate in every direction.

Félix hadn't flinched all that much at the shot, but he was caught completely off guard by Nikki's sudden explosion into movement. She twisted and spun herself around in his loosened grasp, and suddenly she was facing him, leaning into him, his knife was tangled in her hair at the side of her head instead of being at her throat, and she was bringing a knee up in a very unladylike manner.

He let go of her and dodged the blow; she fell heavily to the floor, unable to catch herself or break her fall, and rolled away as MacGyver came after him.

Mac was still holding the gun, although he'd flicked the safety back on and reversed his grip, so he was swinging it by the barrel. He slashed wildly at Félix' face with it.

The blow had no chance of connecting; it wasn't meant to. It kept Félix off balance and drew his eye, and for a moment he was wide open to a left hook. Mac hardly felt the pain in his hand as he connected solidly. The assassin staggered back, shaking his head like a wet dog, and lashed out with a vicious kick in reply.

For Mac, the world suddenly seemed to be moving in slow motion, he was so pumped up; he saw the move coming a mile away, sidestepped just exactly enough, and rapped Félix hard on the ankle bone with the butt of the gun. Félix hadn't made any noise when Mac had punched him, but he yelped at the unexpected crack on his leg.

The sound of outraged pain was sweet music.

Félix had dropped his knife in the struggle with Nikki. Now he reached behind his back, and Mac wasn't surprised to see another knife appear.

He blocked the first slashing move with the Beretta, then grabbed the table lamp from the hotel room desk. He had a instant of near-panic as he seized it, suddenly unsure of whether it was bolted to the table; but it lifted easily and MacGyver swung it directly at the hand that held the knife. He managed to catch the blade between the thin gooseneck and the edge of the curved solid bell of the lampshade, aand Félix lost hold of the knife as Mac twisted the lamp hard, and rammed his other elbow into his face.

MacGyver was panting, and the world was speeding up again. _I'm gettin' too old for this stuff – _he dropped the lamp, tossed the gun aside and launched himself at the other man, aware as they grappled that Nikki, still lying bound on the floor, was watching their progress. When Félix came within reach, she lashed out with her legs and managed to hook an ankle. Another startled yell, and he stumbled and fell.

But the young man was strong and agile, with an athlete's reflexes. He turned the fall into a diving roll, grabbed at the arm of the couch and vaulted over it like a gymnast, landing lightly on his feet and sprinting to the door. He yanked it open, and his running footsteps echoed in the hallway.

Mac was running after him when he heard Nikki give a strangled shout, the loudest sound she could make through her gag. The warning penetrated the red haze in his brain, and he pulled himself up short before he plunged out unprotected into the hallway.

A bullet splintered the doorsill even as he caught at it and stopped his own headlong charge. _Of course he had another gun . . . !_

He slammed the door and locked it, hearing the footsteps start up again and diminish in the distance. Félix had decided to fight another day.

MacGyver leaned against the doorframe as the reaction began to set in, heard his own breath coming in gasps. He straightened up and staggered back to where Nikki lay.

The gag had been knotted painfully tight, too tight for her to spit it out or work it loose. He worried at the knot with fingers that were trembling with residual adrenaline, then dug out his knife and cut the cloth, careful of the tremors.

He did the same with the ropes on her wrists, then sat down on the floor beside her and pulled her into his arms, holding her for a long moment before he checked her neck and throat to make certain the knife hadn't done any real damage. There were a couple of short, shallow cuts along the side of the neck, and some of her hair had been cut. He dabbed at the smears of blood with the cloth of the gag.

"Way to go, Nikki." His voice was shaky.

So was her smile. "C'mon, MacGyver. I've been taking down sexist pricks like that since the days of mullets and monster shoulder pads."

Her voice quavered in spite of her best efforts, and Mac wrapped his arms around her again. "He didn't, um, do anything else – look, do we need to get you to a hospital?"

"No, I'm okay. Just . . . " She'd been tied for long enough that her hands were blue and stiff, cold to the touch; he held them between his own and chafed them. She winced as the returning blood flow brought pins and needles.

"And MacGyver – you're recertified for field operations. I'll get the paperwork done as soon as we get home."

"Um . . . thanks."

"You didn't seem surprised to see him." Nikki flexed her fingers experimentally.

"It made sense. I still don't understand it all, but it just . . . makes sense. Not that anything to do with Murdoc ever _really_ makes sense, but – you know what I mean?"

"I think so. Mac, I hadn't had the chance to tell you – I did manage to track down one person in the Geneva area who remembered Ashton Cooke's death. Her name's Marie Dufaux – she was the concierge at the resort in Argentière at the time of the accident."

Mac nodded, intent, then winced; the adrenaline was beginning to ebb, and his right knee chose that moment to remind him that it didn't like him any more. He rubbed the suddenly throbbing joint absently as he listened.

"Ashton was there on a skiing vacation – and she was with a man, MacGyver. An older man. Marie remembered that he was from South America

"Sandoval?"

"It has to be."

"Yeah." MacGyver rubbed his eyes, feeling some of the pieces of the puzzle fit into their places with an almost audible _click_. "So that's why Murdoc killed him."

"She remembered because after the 'pretty American girl' was confirmed as a casualty in the avalanche, Sandoval made a pass at her – at Marie, that is."

"That's pretty low." He scowled.

"Uh-huh. She called it 'disgraceful and disgusting' – and she still remembered it."

Mac felt a buzz, and realised it was his Blackberry. He glanced from the display to Nikki. "It's Willis."

"Better answer it." Nikki staggered to her feet, caught herself on the back of the couch, and moved with slow determination towards the phone. "I have to call the police. And the front desk – hell, they'll probably ask us to leave in that terribly polite way that you just can't turn down."

"Well, they don't take gunfire casually here."

The Blackberry buzzed again, and Mac turned his attention to the electronic pest. He privately promised himself that when all this was over, he'd leave it in a storage locker somewhere. Or let the battery run dead. Or maybe just bury the danged thing under a rock.

Nikki finished her calls and set down the receiver with a sigh. "Well, they aren't kicking us out tonight, but we have to change rooms. And there'll be the usual questions and statements, and a mountain of official paperwork . . . I'd better call the American Embassy while I'm at it. What did Willis have to say . . . ?" Her voice trailed off as she studied MacGyver's face. She didn't like what she saw.

Mac's reply was soft and even. "You know he's been keepin' my old email address at Phoenix active – "

"I thought it was just a spam trap."

"It is. That's what he uses it for, mostly. He called to tell me that an email just got sent to that address. It was signed 'Murdoc', but it's gotta be from our little Peruvian friend. Willis is working on the internet forensics now."

"What was it? Oh, God – not a photo of another victim – "

"No . . . " Mac licked his lips. "But there _was_ a photo attached. The time-stamp showed it as taken two days ago." He licked his lips again and swallowed hard. "It showed the entrance to the Pioneer Building in downtown Seattle."

Nikki walked over to him and put her arm around him, meeting his eyes. "Isn't that where Lisa has her office?"

"Yup." Mac closed his eyes, set his jaw. Willis had also told him the text of the email – _guess whos next MacGyver_.

"He's gone too far, Nikki. It's gonna end."

_One way or another. It's gonna end._

- x -_  
_


	14. Double Negative

**Reverb**

_Fourteen: Double Negative_

- x -_  
_

Nikki was scowling. And scolding. The familiarity of that was actually comforting, in a funny way.

"MacGyver, I don't believe this. I thought you'd be bolting for Heathrow to get back home! What about Lisa and the girls?"

"Already taken care of. I texted Sam back in LA, when we were on our way to the airport there. Remember?" Mac was bent over his notebook, studying the information Aisha had just sent. "Wow. This is amazing – Aisha musta pulled an all-nighter. Willis wasn't kidding when he said she was good." _I bet she hacked the housing records of the Kilburn council. Good thing Nikki didn't tell her not to._ "She's found Murdoc's mother, Nikki."

"But what's the _point?_ We know who we're after – or who's after us. After _you_. I can't believe you want to stay on in London!"

The long, exhausting hours of officialdom the night before had ended with a return to the hotel to collapse in exhaustion. But the hotel management had been unexpectedly impressed by Nikki's Phoenix credentials, particularly after Scotland Yard had backed her up. They had been allowed to move to another room, this one with two beds – although Nikki had half expected Mac to sleep on the couch anyway, out of sheer habit.

She'd woken up expecting to pack and dash for the airport, and instead found Mac already awake, hunched over his computer.

"It shouldn't be more'n another day or so," he said. "Jacqui Murry's still living in this general area. I just have to find her and get her to talk to me."

"But your family!"

"I _told_ you. Sam's on it. If anything, I need to stay away from them right now – Felix might try to find them by following me. Nikki, my only chance is to stay ahead of him, and to do that I need to know everything I can. I have to finish the job here."

Nikki rubbed her eyes. She hadn't slept well; she'd lain awake for what felt like hours, feeling a faint itching from the shallow cuts on her neck, listening to the regular sound of MacGyver's breathing in the other bed. _He'd_ had no trouble sleeping at all. One moment she'd been lying in the dark, her eyes wide open, alternately annoyed and comforted at the tranquil sounds, and the next she was opening them again to daylight and morning.

"Okay, okay. I see your point. But you'd better make sure you aren't being followed." Mac raised his eyebrows at her grim face. "She might be in danger too, Mac. Felix could come after her, if he knows she exists. We don't know just how much Murdoc told him during all those years in the cellar." She shivered.

"There's gotta be some kind of protection we can get for her – " Mac said uncertainly.

"I'll see what I can arrange."

- x -

The flat was a fetid bedsit in a soot-dimmed council estate, a dozen blocks off Kilburn High Road. The elevator had been broken for so long that the 'Out of Ordr' sign was faded and torn, and Mac hiked up twelve floors of dark stairwell stinking of urine and worse.

There was no answer to his knock. The lock on the doorknob gave up without a struggle; the deadbolt was trickier, especially in the lousy light. MacGyver turned the knob softly and eased the door a few inches open, running his fingers along the inside edge. He felt the swinging chain of the inner latch, dangling, unfastened. Jacqui Murry must be out. Mac closed the door and locked it again. It was funny, but the poorer a place was, the more reluctant he was to break into it. People who had nothing else in the world still had the right to have their home space respected.

He stood in the half-lit hallway, chewing his lip. Across the hallway, another door creaked open, and he braced himself for alarmed questions; but it was a woman of indeterminate age, dressed in a ratty bathrobe, who simply lounged in the doorway, studying him.

" 'Ello, darlin'. Whatcha lookin' for?"

"Um, I was hoping to find Jacqui Murry in."

"American, eh? Friend of hers?"

"Um, kinda. Will she be back soon?" MacGyver squirmed inwardly; the woman's gaze seemed to have peeled off his clothes with her first glance and was now boring into his skin. You'd think that kind of thing wouldn't happen any more now that his face was lined and his hair was mostly silver. It didn't make sense to him.

"She's off to th' pub. Got an extra shift. Be a while." The woman took a long drag on her cigarette. "I'm Dorothy. You fancy waiting for her? You can come on in if you like. Be nice and comfy."

Mac felt his neck turning scarlet. "Um, no thanks, that's fine . . . " He beat a hasty and inglorious retreat.

Given the number of pubs in Kilburn, he could hunt all day for the right one and barely scratch the surface. He'd have to wait for her – preferably _not_ in the neighbour's flat.

A quick visit to the uninspiring stores along the High Road gave him what he needed. The plain grey coverall and tool kit made him as commonplace and invisible as a sparrow, until he actually started working on the elevator's control panel. That turned him into a rare and exotic bird, the sudden centre of attention.

"Mum! There's a man fixin' the lift!"

"Then get the fuck out from underfoot before you drive him away, you div!"

"I din't think they'd ever get the fuckin' thing fixed . . . "

He might be conspicuous, but at least he was still ordinary. The offers of tea came so regularly from the more elderly residents that he was tempted to time them, but nobody tried to stop him, or asked what he was doing there, or whether he had permission to work on the machinery. Somewhat to his surprise, by the time Jacqui Murry finally got home late that afternoon, he'd even managed to get the thing working.

- x -

Jacqui's room was shabby and squalid, furnished with a few sticks of battered, cast-off furniture: a sagging bed, two wobbly chairs, a cheap deal table. There was a small TV set on the table, facing the bed, and she snapped it on as soon as she entered with MacGyver behind her. He didn't recognise the programme.

She didn't seem at all fazed at having the elevator repairman wanting to talk to her. The strong reek of alcohol that oozed out of every pore in her skin might have been to blame. She'd arrived carrying a string bag, which proved to hold a bottle of discount-brand vodka; she dumped her coat beside the bed, found a glass in the kitchenette, made a pretense at rinsing it out, filled it and drank as if the raw spirits were water.

MacGyver studied her with queasy interest, trying to see the resemblance to Murdoc. It was faint, but he thought it was there – something in the shape of the mouth, although she had nothing of the cocky expression, and an echo in the cheekbones and chin. She was a small, fine-boned woman, and Mac could see that she must have been stunning when she was younger, before the ravages of time and the brutal chances of life had raked their clawmarks across her skin and soul.

Willis and Aisha had found three photos of Dr. Murry in various archives, and the resemblance there had been immediate and striking: the eyes in particular had been the same, keenly intelligent, uncompromising, arrogant. Mac had spent a long time studying those photographs, trying to bridge the mental gap between father and son. In all the years he'd chased Murdoc – or been chased by him – Murdoc had always been unique and isolated, with no imaginable past. Mac still couldn't picture him as a child.

"So what's the deal, love? Am I 'helping the po-lice with their en-quir-ies'?" Jacqui gave Mac a long, considering look that made him squirm. "You don't look like a copper."

"I'm not."

"And you're American. Got any cash to spare for international aid, love? Times are hard and I'm a bit short." She tittered. "That's a joke, love. I'm short and you're tall."

MacGyver looked around the miserable room. "It looks like times have been hard for a while."

"Oh, I'm not doin' so well, these days. Not a lot I _can_ do. These days, they're more likely to pay me to keep me clothes _on_, if you take my meaning." She smirked at Mac, and the smirk was a funhouse-mirror echo of Murdoc's. Mac tried not to shrink away.

Instead, he reached into the pocket of his grey coveralls and pulled out a handful of banknotes. He saw Jacqui's eyes suddenly come into crisp focus when she saw the money.

"I'm not with the cops, but I do have some questions I'd like to ask. About the fire, back in 1966. When your – when Dr. Murry died."

Jacqui's eyes narrowed. "After all these years? Why?"

"The night of the fire," Mac said. "You were in the hospital. What about your son? Was he there in the house?"

Her expression shifted strangely; an odd ripple crossed her mouth, a shadow passed behind her eyes. The TV yammered in the background. She lifted the glass and drained it, filled it again. "Edwin Murry's son. The Devil's son," she rasped.

Deep inside, Mac felt as if a coin had dropped into a slot and rung a bell. "Was he there? Jacqui, did he set the fire?"

She swayed, waving the glass back and forth. Mac ground his teeth. If she passed out now . . .

"Funny kid, that. Din't take after his dad much," she mused. "Cool as a cucumber, that one. He had a temper too, like his dad, but he never lost it, not ever. Had to keep it in control. Always in control, every minute. But he loved the music. When 'is dad was out, he'd go to the piano and play for hours, he would. God, I loved to hear 'im play."

Mac thought of Penny. _Yeah, that's one thing that you just can't fake. Musical ability. Weird hobby for a killer . . . _but Jacqui Murry didn't know her son was a killer. Maybe.

"He couldn't dance for shit," she added. "Not 'im."

Mac took a deep breath. Maybe if he took her back a bit . . . "So, after you and your son moved in with Dr. Murry – "

"Well, his wife ran out on 'im, din't she? Took the baby girl and did a bunk. Just as well. She had more sense than me, but it took me long enough to figger that out."

"She did?" Mac was taken aback.

"Dr. Murry was not a nice man, if you take my meaning." Jacqui took a gulp from her glass. She wiped her forehead, which was suddenly beaded with sweat, and shrugged out of her shapeless sweater.

The short sleeves of the shirt she wore underneath didn't begin to cover the marks on her arms: a random scatter of small, ridged circles of shiny puckered skin in various shades of pink, light and dark; some had faded almost to white, some remained a deep angry red. Old scars from burns, tiny round burns, each the size of a cigarette end.

"Like I said, nowadays they'd pay me to keep me clothes on." Jacqui bit her lip. "You think this is bad, you should see me tits. No chance of going back on the stage, not after all that." She lifted her glass again. In spite of her bravado, her eyes glinted with dampness.

MacGyver looked away in embarrassment, trying to give her a little time to recover. His eye fell on the nightstand beside the bed – no more than an old wooden crate standing on end, holding a clock, another dirty glass, a few crumpled tissues, a lurid romance novel, and a framed photograph. Mac felt something inside himself go very still as he took the three steps he needed to be able to reach out, pick up the photograph, and look at it carefully. The harsh light of the naked bulb over their heads showed every detail clearly.

Waves of shock and horror and realisation and understanding reverberated through him, pummeling him until he was dizzy, reshaping the world.

"Hey, love? You all right?" Jacqui was asking him, a long ways off in the hazy distance.

"Solve for _x_," he whispered.

- x -

Two days later and ten thousand miles away, MacGyver and Nikki could hear a chorus of excited barking clearly as they crossed the tidy lawn. The house where Ephraim Moses lived with his wife, the former Anne Cooke, was modest in size and well-kept; behind the house were a couple of acres of rough open fields, a big fenced yard and several dog runs. They lived on the outskirts of Trinidad, California, and there was plenty of elbow room for homes in this area; most of the nearby houses were planted on wide sprawling lots.

The barking quieted when they reached the porch, and they heard a half-dozen controlled woofs from inside. The door swung open even as Nikki reached for the doorbell, revealing Ephraim Moses flanked by a cohort of dogs. He filled the doorway solidly, taller than Mac and with broader shoulders. His short hair was going from grey to white and his face was deeply lined, but he clearly hadn't allowed retirement or advancing age to turn him soft. He stood ramrod-straight, and Nikki could imagine how formidable he must have been as a cop, and before that, a linebacker. The Great Dane beside him seemed dwarfed, and the three inquisitive Newfoundlands behind him barely reached his waist.

Moses was studying his visitors keenly as the door opened, and saw Mac's and Nikki's faces both light up spontaneously at the sight of the dogs. Nikki made an involuntary move forwards to offer the Great Dane her hand, then checked herself, looked chagrined, and offered her hand to the man instead.

"I'm Nikki Haines – you must be Mr. Moses? Did Lieutenant Nguyen from the FBI cold cases department get hold of you?"

Moses laughed. "Y'all go ahead and introduce yourselves." His deep voice still held a strong trace of an Alabama accent. "This here's Elijah – " one massive hand rested briefly on the head of the Great Dane – "and these are Bildad, Zophar and Eliphaz." He gestured with one hand, and the three Newfoundlands happily surrounded an equally happy Nikki while Mac made Elijah's acquaintance. All four dogs were sleek and well-groomed, in peak condition, and keenly interested in the newcomers. After several minutes of canine adoration, Mac glanced up to see Moses nodding with satisfaction.

"I've known dogs that had lousy judgement in human beings, though these don't. An' I've known good people who jus' plain didn't like dogs. But I've never known a bad person who truly loved them. So I figger you'll do. Yes, the good lieutenant called me up and vouched for y'all. But in a pinch, I'll go with my dogs. Y'all come on in. My wife is in the living room."

MacGyver wiped the dog slobber off his hand onto his jeans before he held it out. "I hope you understand that we really do appreciate how difficult this must be for her . . . "

Moses met his eyes with a sharp look. "As far as my wife knows, her daughter's kidnapping in 1989 was a case of mistaken identity, and her death in 1990 was an accident. Are you here to tell her that they weren't?"

Mac looked uncomfortable. "It's a bit more complicated than that . . . "

"Why am I not surprised." The Alabama drawl was more pronounced.

"Maybe because you're still a cop at heart?"

The broad smile flashed in the dark face, but the eyes were sharp and serious. "Jus' remember – if you upset her, you better make sure it's worth it." He turned to Nikki. "Ms. Haines, would you like to meet our other dogs while your colleague talks to my wife?"

Nikki looked genuinely delighted. "I'd love that. We saw you had some runs out back . . . "

"Those are for the rescue dogs. We used to breed an' train dogs for show, but since we got into the rescue business we stay closer to home. An' that's fine. We're not as young as we used to be, an' my wife gets nervous around crowds."

MacGyver had never met Anne Cooke – Anne Moses – before. When Phoenix had sent its operative to interview her about Murdoc, Pete had chosen a woman, Emily Breckinridge, to make the inquiries. Mac had stayed away, uncomfortable at the thought of meeting Murdoc's supposed mother. After Ashton Cooke's death, the unpromising line of inquiry had been dropped.

She was in her late 70s now, and seemed frail and drawn; with her white hair and fine features, the resemblance to her daughter struck Mac immediately. She was small and fine-boned, and there was a superficial similarity to Jacqui as well; it seemed the late Dr. Murry had been consistent in his tastes in women. She held out a blue-veined hand to him as he entered, escorted by the three Newfoundlands.

"How do you do, Mr. – MacGyver? Is that correct?" Her accent was English, rich and patrician. "Do I presume that you're the same MacGyver who rescued my daughter when she was kidnapped?"

"Yes, ma'am – "

"I wish you had come to see me then. I would have liked to thank you. Please, do sit down."

She seated herself on the couch, and two of the dogs joined her, Eliphaz lying at her feet while Bildad, an evident favourite, climbed onto the cushions beside her. Mac settled into one of the chairs, and Zophar promptly lay down heavily on top of his right foot, threatening to cut off circulation. Mac reached down and ruffled the dog's thick fur.

"I see Zophar's already fond of you," Anne remarked.

"Awful nice of him."

"Her, actually. Zophar and Eliphaz are both females, although we don't breed them any more. The dogs are a true comfort, of course – the names are a private joke of my husband's."

"Mrs. Moses, I'm real sorry about all this. It's gotta be hard on you, having the past brought up."

Anne simply bent her head slightly, a regal acquiescence. MacGyver drew a deep breath and hoped the dog lying on his foot wouldn't change her mind about him when he started to say upsetting things.

"I presume this has something to do with Ashton?" Anne inquired softly.

"Yes, ma'am." Mac plunged ahead. He felt like a brute, but there really wasn't any gentle way to tackle it. "That last trip she made to Switzerland – the skiing vacation that ended with the avalanche – was she with anyone?" Anne grew very still, and he pressed on. "An older man? Maybe someone she'd only just met?"

Anne swallowed. "Yes. His – his name was Sandoval. Carl Sandoval, I think – "

"Carlos, maybe? Carlos Sandoval?"

"Yes, that's it. Ashton met him in Paris, I believe. And yes, he was quite a bit older than she was. I didn't approve, but what can you do? She was an adult, after all." She shifted on the couch, obviously uncomfortable with the subject. Bildad placed his huge head on her knee and looked up at her, and she placed a hand on his head for comfort. "Was he married?"

"Yes, ma'am. But it's worse than that. He was a big player in the South American drug trade."

Anne closed her eyes. "Mr. MacGyver, please tell me the truth. _Was_ her death an accident?"

"Yes."

Mac watched her open her eyes and breathe again, running a gnarled hand along the dog's back. He wished he didn't have to keep asking questions.

"Did the money stop coming after she died?"

Anne stiffened. Bildad raised his head and looked at Mac reproachfully. "I'm not following you," she said coolly.

"The money that your son used to send."

Anne's voice dropped from cool to glacial. "We've been through this all before, and if you're here to harass me again – I never _had_ a son, for god's sake – " The chilly voice was heating up quickly.

MacGyver held up an abrupt hand, stilling her for a moment. With the other hand he drew out the photograph Jacqui Murry had given him and held it so the light fell on it clearly. "He's the one on the left, isn't he?"

Anne was suddenly silent. Mac pressed on. "He took the photograph himself, using a timer. He was into photography, wasn't he?"

"Yes." The voice was very soft. "Yes, that's Desmond. He was a fine hand with a camera. He took some lovely pictures of the garden I used to have . . . I had to leave all that behind . . . "

"When you were Mrs. Murry." MacGyver was nodding, all reassurance and understanding and support. "Before you left your first husband – when you took your baby daughter and ran away." Anne looked sharply at him, but saw no denunciation, only compassion. "And you had to leave your son with his father."

"Yes." The stiff shoulders finally softened. Anne turned away from Mac and reached down to stroke the dog's muzzle. "He understood why I had to go, why I couldn't take him . . . I would never have gotten away if I'd tried to take him too. He said it at the time, he said he understood – and when he found us again, he said he'd always understood . . . "

Mac drew her attention back to the photograph. "And the one on the right is his brother."

"_Half_-brother, if you please." The voice suddenly regained a crisp edge of ice.

"Yes. I'm sorry. But they were close." Mac's voice had now become very quiet. "You can tell that by looking at the photo."

You could tell a lot by looking at that photo. MacGyver felt as if the image had been burned into the inside of his eyelids, haunting him even when he wasn't looking at it. The two faces. Not twins. But similar. Close enough. The eyes were the most alike, and the way the eyes were set into the face – the faces. The foreheads were similar, the noses only slightly different – nothing that couldn't easily be mimicked with a little make-up. The biggest differences were in the cheekbones and the jawlines – but that was where the scarring had been. Had any of the scarring ever been real? Had one brother imitated the real scars on the other, or had it all been fakery? The mask inside the mask . . . the trick, the ongoing charade, until there was only one face, and no need to use a mask to make the two faces mirror each other.

And the grin was the same – already mocking, the same smirk on both brothers. They must have been about eighteen or nineteen at the time.

_Murdoc_. A lie inside a fraud inside a con job. No wonder the smile, the laugh, had always been so mocking.

"Oh, yes, they were close. Too close. Desmond was only a few months older than Barry, you see." Anne's jaw had tightened, and the skin of her face seemed taut. "We – we had only been married a little over a year, Mr. MacGyver. And I was pregnant. With his son. And he – that horrid little tart . . . " At her feet, Eliphaz lifted a shaggy head and began to whine, and Bildad shifted restlessly.

"It was bad enough having to put up with _her _– that _woman_ – my husband set her up in her own flat, a quite nice one, only a few blocks away. And I was expected to live with that boy – her _child_ – always coming over, always spending time with my own son. It was _humiliating_. As if all the rest weren't bad enough." Anne was shaking; Mac couldn't tell if it was pain or anger or hurt pride. She had buried her fingers in the thick fur of the dog's coat, holding on.

"She was so _young_ – good God, she was barely more than a child herself when Barry was born. It was _disgusting_. That's why, you see . . . when my daughter was born . . . I had to get her away from there. I had to accept that nobody was ever going to help me. Whatever I did, I was going to have to do it by myself." Anne's face was nearly expressionless, but her eyes leaked slow tears.

"I _had_ to tell myself the boys would be all right. They were always very good at looking after themselves, you see. And they looked out for each other. They liked to see how far they could push things – in a bad light, they looked a great deal alike. You can see that in the photograph, I suppose – did you know my son, Mr. MacGyver? Did you ever meet him?"

"Yeah. I – I knew both of them."

She looked at him keenly – almost, Mac thought, hopefully. "Did you – did you work with him? Them? You work for the government, don't you?"

"Um, I used to . . . "

"I know you can't really tell me anything – Desmond explained all that. About his work."

"He did?" Mac nearly choked.

"Only about how it was all very top secret. He made me promise, you see. He said we'd never want for anything, that Ashton would always be provided for – but if anyone ever came asking, no matter who they were, I mustn't even admit he existed. He said I'd set it up beautifully, all I had to do was stick to the story, and he'd be safe."

MacGyver spoke very softly. "You do know that he's dead, don't you?"

"Oh, yes. Barry visited me afterwards . . . he told me. And reminded me of my promise. He said Ashton would be in terrible danger if anyone suspected. He loved Ashton too, of course."

"What did he tell you?" Mac had been stroking Zophar's coat as he listened. Now he, too had buried his fingers in the long thick fur. Holding on.

"Not much. He said that Desmond died in a fall, mountain-climbing – the mountain had a funny name, much too apt – "

"The Widowmaker."

"Yes, yes, that was it. He hinted that it was during a mission . . . " She studied Mac closely. "Were you _there_? Oh, I shouldn't ask, should I? . . . I suppose it's all classified."

"Yes." MacGyver forced the words out. "I was there." _What is it about mountains? We've both lost . . . _

"Do things like that stay classified for always? I suppose they have to, don't they?"

"Some of them. I'm pretty sure this one will." Zophar had lifted her head up to him, and he held her head gently and met her steady, loving gaze. It was an easy way to avoid meeting Anne's eyes. _It's real easy to tell when you're lying, Murdoc. Your mouth moves. 'Cept you lied even when you weren't saying anything at all._

"It's good to see you like dogs, Mr. MacGyver. I'm afraid neither of the boys did, you see. Ashton had a spaniel when she was growing up, and, well, when Desmond visited us the first time, after he'd tracked us down – it bit him."

_You're kidding._ Mac focused on the dog's earnest eyes. _So that wasn't a lie._

They sat in silence for some time before Anne spoke again.

"Is Barry dead also?"

"Yes, ma'am." She remained silent, and he added, "He died in Peru, thirteen years ago."

"I wish I could be sorry. But . . . it's very difficult. I always wondered . . . my first husband was such a horrible man. I tried not to think about it, but I always wondered about the boys. How they really turned out." She had wrapped her arms around Bildad and was holding him close. The dog whined and licked her face. "Barry visited me just once after Ashton died – he gave me some more money, quite a lot really, and told me to disappear again. I didn't especially want to, but he seemed to think I was in danger. And – Mr. MacGyver, I'm not very strong or brave or anything. I was frightened, and I couldn't really think very well, and Ashton was gone . . . I ran away. Again. I didn't stop running until I met Ephraim."

"He seems like a real good man to be with," MacGyver said.

"He makes me feel safe."

- x -

_Two boys who looked too much alike, and a dad with a vicious streak, and neighbours who looked the other way for years._

_Just how bad did it get, before he – they – cracked? Which one killed their dad, and which one set the fire to cover up the killing? Murdoc – the second Murdoc – told me he didn't kill his father. Maybe he didn't. Maybe his other half did. Or maybe he really did, and he blamed his other self. He could do that, once the other half was dead._

_No wonder he kept coming after me. Was he afraid I'd figure it out? Would he really have told me, if he'd lived just a little longer?_

Nikki stopped at the first coffee shop she saw. She surreptitiously bribed two teenagers and a would-be writer with a laptop to vacate the most private corner of the Starbucks, and planted MacGyver in the corner with a cup of coffee in front of him.

He took a sip and made a face. "What the heck is this?"

"Coffee. You may remember it. Now that you're responsive, what do you actually want to drink?"

She brought him a blueberry scone and something made with chai that smelled herbal, and found him staring at his own right hand in bemusement.

"The hand," he muttered.

"What?"

"Murdoc's _hand_. After Peru, Pete said something that didn't make sense – I told him about how they'd cut off Murdoc's right hand, so he couldn't escape. And he said that didn't make sense, Murdoc was ambidextrous. Except he wasn't." Mac was turning his hand over, slowly, flexing the fingers. "Murdoc – the _other_ Murdoc – was right-handed."

MacGyver hunched his shoulders as if an arctic wind was hitting him. "What a _scam_. And they never figured it out at HIT, never even guessed – it musta been Murdoc's secret ploy, one extra trick to keep the odds in his favour. That was _x_. He said I never solved for _x_."

He was picking at the scone, his long fingers scattering crumbs onto the table. Nikki wished he'd just eat it. She didn't think he'd had much food, or sleep, in the last two days, as they'd made their way home from London while she worked on arranging the interview with Anne Moses/Cooke/Murry.

"Nikki, most of the time, Pete and I only caught a glimpse of him, or we saw him in disguise, or in make-up. I never saw him up close till after the Widowmaker. Not till after one of them was dead." Mac shook his head. "He musta blamed me for it, of course. After – after his brother fell off a mountain, trying to get at me. At you and me. I remember now – Nikki, in Peru, he accused me of pushing him off that cliff. Only it wasn't _him_ he thought I'd pushed."

He covered his face with his hands, ran his fingers through his hair. "All these years, Nikki. I could never get past the Widowmaker. Because no matter how many times I went over it, _he_ _couldn't have survived that fall_. _Nobody_ could." In his memory, he could still hear the man screaming as he fell. "And now it turns out he didn't."

Nikki bit her lip and leaned across the table. "_MacGyver._ Murdoc is _dead_ – dead twice over! – and we have a copycat killer on the loose. He's already threatened your family! What's next?"

"He's gonna try to come after me," Mac replied, almost automatically. He shook himself. His eyes were burning, dark coals, suddenly implacable. "He's gonna try to set a trap for me."

MacGyver looked up and met her eyes. Nikki took a deep breath; he looked like himself again, at last. "And I know where he's going."

"What about your family?"

"He's after them too. You know that. Leverage." Mac's jaw clenched. "But he's looking in the wrong place. I have to make sure he keeps looking the wrong way."

- x -

Lisa Malloy never allowed anything to interrupt her when she was in session. Her attention belonged to her patients, and nothing short of alien invasion was going to interfere with that. She shared a suite of offices with two other psychologists and a life coach. The receptionist was shared as well, although Lisa had hired her originally, from a Phoenix recommendation.

She could have easily afforded a private office and a full-time receptionist and office assistant, if she'd been willing to let her father bankroll her. He'd tried to 'help' her several times, beginning with overbearing insistence, eventually backing down to an affronted standing offer. Since he had made it plain from the start that he detested her career choice, as well as her choices of husband, in-laws, city of residence, car (a fuel-efficient import), house (a modest Craftsman), choice of school for the girls (public, although both were in gifted children's programs) and most of the other major and minor decisions in her life, she'd be damned if she'd give him any of the leverage that would come from allowing him to pay for anything. Every penny he'd given her since her own graduation had gone into a college fund for the girls, and she sent him regular statements to make sure he knew it.

She always checked between appointments for messages and schedule changes; but this time, her client wasn't even all the way out the door before Sara pounced on her. "Your ex-husband called, Lisa, while you were in there. Three times! He was all on edge about something, but he wouldn't leave a message at first. The last time he called, he said he was about to get on a plane and he let me put him into voice mail then. Should I have interrupted . . . ?"

"Absolutely not, no way. You made the right choice." Lisa stepped back into her office, picked up the phone, punched the message button. _Sam Malloy, what the hell are you on about . . . _

"Hey, babe?" Her stomach did a little twist at the pet name. Damn him, he'd stopped using it ages ago – he must have been pretty distracted to slip up like that. "Look, I'm really sorry to break into your day like this. But Dad just texted me. Lisa, he sent the Hibernate signal. I'm catching the first flight outta here. Details in email; I already sent it. Shit, I gotta go, they're calling my flight – "

Lisa glowered at the phone as the red message light winked out. _Hell._ She hit the intercom. "Sara? Is Mr. Whitelaw here yet?"

"No – "

"Can you give me his cell phone number? It should be in the appointment record. I'm going to have to cancel his session, and I might be able to reach him directly. While I'm doing that – " Lisa chewed her lower lip. "While I'm doing that, please start calling my other appointments for the next – " _How long, o lord?_ " – for the next week. I've got, um, I've got a family emergency." _I've got a family of lunatics._

- x -

Petra was bursting with questions when Lisa picked her up in the middle of the school day. But Petra was always bursting with questions, whether she actually asked them or not. Her favourite word as a toddler hadn't been _Why_, it had been _How_. When she'd taught herself to read at the age of four – apparently by osmosis – Lisa remembered feeling relieved. It had meant Petra could start working on at least some of her own answers.

"Mom, what's going on?"

"Tell you as we go. We have to hurry."

Lisa waited until Petra was in the car with the doors closed. "Honey, you remember your twelfth birthday? When Dad and I told you about 'Hibernate'?"

Petra stopped in the middle of fastening her seatbelt and stared. "Mom? You're not shi – um, you're not kidding, are you?"

"I wish I was. Buckle in, we have to go pick up your sister."

Petra complied. Her eyes were still wide. "This is for real? Really for real?"

"Yeah. Is it that hard to believe?"

"Kinda." Petra swallowed. "Is it Dad or Grampa?"

"Grampa. The call came from Dad."

"_Cool_." Lisa turned her head to stare at her daughter, and saw the girl's eyes were sparkling. She set her small chin, and Lisa's heart flipped over at the expression on her daughter's face. "What can I do? I mean, can I help at all?"

"Your sister doesn't know about 'Hibernate' – unless you told her."

"_Mom_. I promised I wouldn't. I didn't even tell Daphne."

"Good girl. Well, I have to check email as soon as we get home – "

"Secret instructions?" Petra's eyes gleamed.

Lisa winced. "Yeah. While I'm doing that, I need you to pack. And help your sister pack."

- x -

Sam's email was waiting in Lisa's inbox.

_Hey, angel, it's all set. Just like I promised. I'm forwarding you the plane reservations – everything's arranged. Tickets'll be waiting for you. And I'll be at the Honolulu Airport to meet you when you land. We've got two weeks at Kumulani, just off Kailua Beach on Maui – 1157 Halekuai Street. Sun and sand and total peace._

Lisa winced. The message sounded real and false at the same time, just as he had warned her it would be, if they ever actually had to do this. Sam had _never_ called her 'angel' – how _goopy_ – or promised them a trip to Hawaii. The big family adventure – back when they'd been a family – had been to Alaska, to cruise the Inland Passage, stare at glaciers and watch for whales, with several shore excursions in search of more wildlife. Sam had spent four entire weeks just being a photographer again – and a husband and a father – although he'd grumbled about the cold.

She bit her lip and opened a browser to the Phoenix website, searched for the word 'angel' and found it on a page of notable benefactors. She clicked on the word and found herself staring at a login box on a secure page.

_Crap. It's for real._

The password was a combination of the cottage name, the street address, and her own middle name. Inside the secure lockbox were two files, also passworded. She bit her lip and read Sam's real instructions.

The second file contained the latest eco-chicken-crossing-the-road jokes currently making the rounds at Phoenix. _Sam Malloy. You . . . you goofball._ But Lisa felt oddly comforted as she shut down the computer and hurried to pack her own suitcase.

- x -

The judge who had signed the divorce decree six years back had seemed surprised by the lack of hostility between the former couple. He'd taken a few minutes out of his 'busy schedule' to praise them for their willingness to put their children first, to set aside their differences and cooperate. At the time, Lisa had wanted to poke him in the eye with his own Montblanc fountain pen. She'd made it through that day, and a lot of others before and after, by thinking about the girls as hard as she could instead of trying to figure out why her fairy-tale dream marriage had fallen apart.

That same judge would have been astonished and confused if he'd known just how much more cooperation had gone on outside the courtroom, and the number of unusual stipulations they'd both agreed to. If the girls hadn't existed, if they'd never been born, maybe none of it would have been necessary; maybe she could have gone her own way, built a completely new life.

No. Without Petra and AnnaRose, life simply wouldn't have continued; there would have been no reason to keep going.

And here she was now, shepherding the girls through the line at airport security – not too bad at this moment, midafternoon on a weekday in spring – and wondering what came next. The tickets had been waiting for them, and they had their boarding passes, but Sam's instructions had been specific. _Pack like you're really going to Hawaii, and check a bag each. Go through security. But don't board. Don't even go down the concourse. I'll be in touch._

Her cell phone buzzed. She switched her flight bag to the other shoulder and checked the phone: a text message from Sam. _The food court, huh? He'd better be prepared to stop and feed the girls. Once they smell the grease, they'll remember that they're hungry._ She half smiled and texted him back.

_Message received, Mr. Bond. And if you want to play cloak and dagger, fine. Prove you're Sam. _

The reply made her blush.

In the food court, she looked around anxiously. _Hell. Is he doing the chameleon routine again?_ She stopped looking for his face and started looking for his profile, or his back and shoulders – the things that couldn't really be changed. After a moment she spotted him, and didn't know whether to smile or wince. _Oh, Sam._ The ratty old stadium jacket and sloppy sneakers, the dorky T-shirt and baseball cap, the broad shoulders hunched over a cell phone screen, the heavy glasses and aura of awkwardness – nobody who knew him could have spotted him, unless they were looking for something else. Of course, here in Seattle, that persona blended in particularly well.

But nowhere near well enough to fool his own daughters.

"Daddy!" AnnaRose tackled his legs.

He reached down and scooped her up, murmuring, "Hello, princess. Do me a favour? Don't ask me why I'm dressed funny."

"Silly," AnnaRose declared. "I don't hafta ask. I already know."

"Oh?" Sam and Lisa exchanged glances.

"You're in disguise so you can spy on the bad guys, right?"

This time, Sam looked at both Lisa and Petra, who gave him identical nope-didn't-tell-her headshakes. Sam looked back at AnnaRose. "Okay. If you figured out that much, you must've figured out that it's a secret. Right?"

She nodded enthusiastically. "Like _The Incredibles_. Do we all get secret identities now?"

- x -

Lisa had to admit, it had been slick.

Sam had brought the change of clothes for Petra, and Lisa had hers in her flight bag as well as AnnaRose's – Sam had been very specific on what to bring. The wildly flouncy dress had been AnnaRose's chosen reward for winning a creative writing prize at school. It was hard to drag her away from the mirror, but she was too excited at the opportunity to wear the absurd outfit to ask questions or realise that the dress was insanely impractical for a plane trip. Lisa's chic black cocktail dress – the most formal outfit she owned these days; she didn't go out much – wasn't any better.

Sam and Petra had ducked into the 'family' restroom while Lisa took AnnaRose into the ladies' room for their transformation. When they emerged, Lisa stopped worrying about the risk of anyone seeing a pre-teen girl enter a bathroom with a creepy, nerdy guy old enough to be her father. She was too startled to worry about anything.

"Oh my _god_, Sam . . . _Petra_ . . . "

Sam had changed into evening wear, which looked odd on him – not _bad_, just odd – but not nearly as odd as Petra, who was now wearing a boy's dress clothes, from the tuxedo and black tie right down to the polished dress shoes.

"Jesus, Sam, it's a good thing her hair was already short – did you actually bring hair dye with you, or just improvise something? On second thought, please don't tell me." She studied her older daughter, who struck a pose and bowed. She had to admit that the look was convincing; none of them bore any resemblance to their usual selves. Sam unfolded several roomy shopping bags from high-end boutiques, and the girls' inelegant backpacks disappeared into them, along with all the travel clothes.

Petra's longing gaze was already drifting to the food court. "Mom . . . can we . . . "

Lisa glanced at Sam. "Do we have time for them to get a snack?"

"Pleeease . . . ?" AnnaRose offered her best puppy-dog-eye expression. Sam staggered back from the look, clutching his heart melodramatically.

"Okay, fine. Just get something that won't mess up your fancy clothes. Unless your dad has another change of clothes in his back pocket?"

"Can we get pretzels? Pretzels aren't messy!"

"Smoothies?"

"Both?"

Sam and Lisa stood on the outskirts of the food court, watching the girls run their errand.

"Lisa, this may not be a great time to say this, but – you look terrific."

She found herself smiling. "You still clean up nice yourself. Remember what your dad looked like at our wedding? I mean, I was impressed that he put on a suit, but that tie was just plain _scary_." She drew a deep breath. "So. What gives? Are the clothes just really radical camouflage?"

"A bit more'n that. There's a _quinceañera_ going on at the Airport Marriott. There'll be at least three hundred guests, all ages, all in fancy dress."

"A nice big crowd to hide in?"

"To disappear in." Sam checked his watch. "I've got a limo picking us up in fifteen minutes. We'll crash the party, and then walk out the back and flag a taxi."

"Are we going to be catching a plane at all?"

"No. I figure on renting a car – there must be a hundred or so car rental places in this area. Then we'll hit the road to some place that isn't Hawaii."

"What about our tickets? Sam, we just checked our luggage – oh, jeez. That's why you said not to put anything in the bags that we couldn't live without."

"Yeah. Um, did you?"

"No, Petra's laptop is in her backpack, and AnnaRose's stuffed panda is in hers. And the toothbrushes and all that. But . . . "

"A buddy of mine in Honolulu will pick up your bags at the airport. You'll get the stuff back eventually. I'm sorry you're missing out on the trip . . ." He gave a rueful shrug. "Maybe you and the girls can go there some other time."

"Hey, maybe our luggage will send us postcards. 'Having a wonderful time. Wish you were here.' " She frowned as she watched Petra and AnnaRose doing the millionth repetition of the Smoothie Flavour Debate. Petra was on a lifelong mission to try every possible flavour variation and combination; AnnaRose always considered trying something exotic, and then changed her mind and ordered strawberry. "Sam, I shouldn't ask, but – is this really necessary?"

Sam started to run a hand through his hair, then checked himself and stuffed both hands into his pockets. "Dad wouldn't have used that signal if it wasn't."

"Do you have any idea what's going on?"

"Not a clue." She saw the unveiled worry on his face. He shrugged again. "And the whole idea is to stay low and keep contact to an untraceable minimum – just enough so that they know we're still all right – so we probably won't learn anything till it's all over."

"Will they tell us then? Will _you_ tell _me_?"

"Do you want to know?"

Her eyes followed the girls. "Yes."

"Okay, then."

_As simple as that. Careful what you wish for._ Lisa bit her lip. _His father's in danger, and all he can do about it is go to ground._ "For how long?"

"Till Dad lets us know it's safe."

_What if he can't . . ._ She stopped herself from finishing the thought. The girls were on their way back: AnnaRose skipping, the crinolined skirt of her fancy dress swooshing, Petra walking with a solemn swagger. _Good god, she's trying to be macho._ Petra's bowtie was already crooked. Lisa swallowed, caught between inappropriate laughter and ill-timed tears.

As they settled into the limousine, AnnaRose squirmed and wriggled. Lisa recognised the signs: anxiety or stress, not fatigue or fussiness. "What's up, munchkin?"

The child looked from one parent to the other. "Can I ask a question?"

"You just did," said Petra. Lisa was about to shush her when she added, "Quick, ask another one before they figure it out."

AnnaRose pulled a face at her sister. She didn't giggle, but Lisa could see that she'd relaxed a bit. She looked at her father.

"Are the bad guys chasing us now?"

Lisa's heart sank. There had been an edge of genuine fear in the question, with a hidden plea for reassurance just behind it. _How real is this?_ And what kind of answer could they make? It would be insulting to try to pretend it was a game – and probably dangerous as well.

"I hope not, sweetheart," Sam answered. "That's why we're in disguise, and that's why we're going to go on a trip. Somebody's looking for us, and I don't want them to find you. So we're all going to hide." He leaned forward in the seat, his elbows on his knees. "I'm gonna need your help, all of you. I may have to ask you to do things you don't really want to do. I _will_ have to ask you not to do some things that would normally be okay. Petra, when you update your blog, I want you to pretend that we really did go to Hawaii. I'll help you with the details."

"So we're not going all the way off the grid?" Petra asked. She seemed almost disappointed.

"Not quite. But close."

AnnaRose was nodding solemnly. She still looked anxious, but she had stopped squirming. "Daddy, we _are_ the good guys, right? We're not the bad guys?"

Sam reached out a finger to beep his younger daughter on the nose. Lisa found her breath catching; Sam had his father's hands – the impossibly long, slender fingers, the unconscious grace in every gesture. That had always been part of the problem: he reminded her too damned much of his father, and she kept forgetting to allow for the fact that they were different men.

"We're good guys, sweetheart. Don't ever forget that. It's a bigger job, and it's harder to keep it up, and lots of times nobody remembers to say thanks, but it's worth it. It's always worth it."

- x -_  
_

_Note: Again, please, avoid spoilers in comments. But feel free to email me at lolmac [at] livejournal dot com with any spoilerifical remarks!  
'Beth_


	15. Indirect Object

**Reverb**

_**Fifteen: Indirect Object**_

- x -_  
_

_Growing up, I knew I was smart. Real smart. I'd never met anyone half as smart as me. And then, well, I met my dad._

_The first time I did something dumb that almost got us both killed, he told me, "Sam, the smarter you are, the dumber you can be." By then, I'd gotten smart enough to listen, but not smart enough to remember._

_When I asked Lisa to marry me, I must've thought it was a smart move. But really, I didn't think it through at all. Or if I did, thinking didn't really help. I mean, I'd never really __seen__ an ordinary working marriage, so I didn't even know what one looked like. Neither did Lisa. And I was so damned cocky – I acted like marriage was some kind of fancy puzzle that I could figure out and solve if I just thought about it hard enough. I was like that. I figured I was smart enough to think my way out of anything, and tough enough to fight my way out if thinking didn't do the trick._

_I forgot about what Dad had said until too late._

- x -_  
_

Sam finally got back from the coffee shop and pulled the very ordinary, very boring rental car – a white Ford sedan – into the parking lot of their very ordinary, very boring motel in Poplar Bluff, Missouri. He had a moment of disorientation, suddenly worried that he might have accidentally returned to the motel room number from the previous night, or the one before that. Or the one before that – no, that motel had had green doors, and a silly windsock in the shape of a giant koi flying from a short flagpole over the motel office. And this _was_ the right room – there was the battered paperback novel sitting on the windowsill, tucked between the curtains and the glass and plainly visible as he climbed the staircase up from the parking lot, the signal that all was well.

All was well and pretty much as expected: Petra sprawled on one bed, reading, and AnnaRose sprawled on the other bed, with the laptop. Both girls were already in their nightclothes. Lisa was sitting at the modest table that pretended to be a desk, reading a professional journal and making notes. She glanced up at Sam, unalarmed by his arrival – he'd given the right knock – and smiled as she followed his look around the room.

"Four people, one computer," she laughed. "We're really roughing it now. How did it go?" She started to rise, as if she was going to walk over casually and kiss him hello, and then stopped herself, silently damning old habits, and pretended she hadn't been going to do anything of the sort.

"No problems; it just took a little while to lay the new section of false trail. Petra's latest update should be posted by now. Tomorrow, we're going to decide to skip the commercial whale-watching cruise and go out with a buddy of mine on his fishing boat."

"But we'll see a whale anyway," Petra announced. "We'll see a humpback whale and her baby, and we won't go too close, so we don't scare them."

AnnaRose had rolled over onto her back with her head hanging off the edge of the bed so she could look at her father upside down. "How come you had to go to the coffee shop to post it? We've got wireless here. It's free. You don't even hafta hack their network, they just give you the password if you ask."

"It's a real easy password anyway," Petra added.

"I don't want them tracking us through the IP address. You can hack MySpace with a cheese grater and a slide rule. No, I emailed your post to my buddy in Punalu'u. He'll get it online locally, and the cybertrail will lead right back to where we aren't."

"How about the check-in?" Lisa asked. She'd seen that Sam's back and shoulders still had the same tension as when he'd left. "Anything from your father?"

"Nothing new since yesterday." He kept his tone light and cheerful.

Petra had set her book aside and slid off the bed. "How does it work? Do you report to him, or does he report to you? Or do you both hafta report to Ms. Nikki? Is she like 'M' in the James Bond movies?"

"Hey! Gimme a break! I can only evade one question at a time!"

"Petra, exactly _when_ did you see any of the Bond movies?" Lisa asked severely.

"Aw, Mom, they're only PG-13. And 'M' is _cool_."

Sam shrugged out of his leather jacket and handed it to the waiting Petra, who slipped into it and struck several melodramatic poses before taking it over to the tiny closet and hanging it up. "At the moment, I'm not officially reporting to anyone. I just checked in to let Dad know we're all okay, and to see if we have an All-Clear signal yet." He'd abandoned the attempt to keep the girls in the dark after the first day; it had been a waste of time trying to keep ahead of their hyperactive imaginations. A handful of facts went a lot farther than a mountain of evasions.

"But how? You said you hadta lay low."

"Dad and I have sock puppet accounts on a couple of motorcycle forums."

"_Cool_. Do you leave coded messages for each other?"

"Sort of. Everybody else thinks we're talking about motorcycles. Sometimes we are. It's not a formal code, though. We kind of make it up as we go along. Pretty much the way you and Daphne do."

"Huh?" Petra looked startled, and then tried to look innocent. She tried to sneak a glance at her mother, and Lisa had to smother her impulse to laugh. _Oh, nice change of subject there, Sam . . . _ Petra's alliance with Willis' daughter had kept them on their toes almost since the two girls had learned to use a keyboard.

He continued blithely. "Speaking of that. You've only been writing updates for your MySpace page so far. Dad and I can skip posting for weeks, and nobody thinks about it twice. But if you go too long without updating the 'GeniusGrrl' blog, it'll look funny."

Petra flinched and turned scarlet. "You . . . um . . . you _know_ about that?"

Lisa sighed. "Honey, we know about them all."

"All . . . what?"

"All your proxy identities and online aliases," Lisa said blandly. "And Willis and Jess know about Daphne's. What did you think I meant?"

"All three?"

Her mother met her eyes firmly. "All _four_."

AnnaRose smirked, and Petra winced elaborately, stealing a look at her father. He was standing with his arms crossed, looking at her sternly. He lifted the hand on the side away from Lisa – carefully, so that his body blocked her view of what he was doing – and flashed a signal to Petra: all five fingers. _Five._

_Shit._ They really _did_ know about all the alias accounts, although at least Mom didn't know about . . . that one.

Her father stirred, letting his hand settle back into neutrality. "Something else I've been meaning to tell you, honey. I know you think it's fun, but going into neo-Nazi chatrooms and playing 'Bait the Bigot' really isn't a good idea. Before you start poking paranoids, you have to make sure your stick is longer than their arm, or they'll clobber you."

Petra made a face. "Dad, it's not like they're ever gonna catch me. Have you seen their crap websites?"

"Yeah, I sure have."

"Well, then you know what I mean! They're, like, totally back in 2002 or something. We – um, I can stay _waay_ ahead of them."

"And so can Daphne, I suppose?"

Petra blushed and studied her slippers.

Sam couldn't hold the stern expression any longer. He started laughing, ruffling Petra's hair. "I'm going to need you to write up the entry in advance and show it to me before you post. We'll have to do the posting through a proxy. I may have to ask you to make changes."

"And then you'll read it online and make sure I do," she said sulkily.

"Sweetheart, your mom and I don't usually read your sites. We just know about them."

Petra looked from one parent to the other in confusion.

Lisa was smiling gently. "Petra, I don't hunt through your dresser drawers either."

"Good thing," AnnaRose interjected. "They're all messy and gross and stuff."

"Yours are worse!"

"Are not!"

"Cork it! _Right now_!" Sam barked. The girls subsided. "Remember what I told you when we gave you your first laptop: _nothing's_ private in cyberspace. But we give you as much space as we can."

Petra contemplated her feet. "Suck it up, huh?"

"Pretty much."

She shrugged. "I guess it could be a lot worse."

"Darn tootin'. I could have my sock puppet accounts Friend your sock puppet accounts. Think of _that_ for a moment."

"_Da-ad!_"

- x -_  
_

It was funny how quickly they had settled into a routine. In only five days, the bedtime ritual had adapted to the new circumstances and re-established itself. His family – he still thought of them that way, though it hurt – must have built their own patterns over the years when he'd just been a visitor in their lives. But here, now, he was part of the new routine. His evening absences varied, and the girls were usually ready for bed by the time he was back and able to stay put; but every evening, they'd be waiting nonchalantly for his return, and the next step in the sequence didn't happen till he got back.

Hugs and kisses and toothbrushing, and then Lisa would read another chapter of Tamora Pierce out loud to the girls. Petra would pretend to be too old to care about read-aloud, and blow her cover within ten minutes, joining AnnaRose in rapt attention. Lisa was a good reader, always had been. Once the girls were sound asleep, another soft prowl outside around the motel and the parking lot and the surrounding streets before slipping back to the motel room.

By then, Lisa would be asleep in one bed with one of the girls, and he'd take the other. Then another night of lying awake for an hour or two or three, hearing the soft breathing of his sleeping family around him, fighting off the urge to slip into the other bed where Lisa was lying – just to wrap his arms around her and feel that she was there, feel the warmth of her skin, smell her hair and feel how safe and solid and real she was. _God_, he was such an idiot.

This time, when he finished his soft-footed sweep of the area, he found Lisa sitting outside in the mild, warm evening. They were on the upper floor of the half-empty motel, and they could sit out by the rail of the walkway and look out over the parking lot and the street beyond – the motel was technically on the edge of town, but the place was so small they could see most of the way across it. Sam had actually had to drive to the next town to find a coffee shop with internet service.

It was more pleasant to look the other way, into the soft darkness of fields closely hedged in with broad swathes of open forest, oak and hickory beginning to unfurl their leaves, and stands of smaller flowering trees. There were frothy patches of dogwood and hawthorn just across the street from the motel, sweet-smelling pale ghosts in the dimness.

_Not quite warm enough for fireflies in the evening – and it's still too early in the year anyway – man, AnnaRose would've loved that. More lousy timing . . ._ "Everything okay in there?"

"All quiet on the munchkin front. They were chattering about what direction to go tomorrow and pretty much fell asleep in mid-sentence."

The trip had begun in a grim, exhausting blur of endless miles of hard driving, tearing down the interstate and stopping as rarely and briefly as possible. The girls had slept long hours in the back seat, and Sam and Lisa had driven in shifts through the grueling days. The only real breaks came when they stopped for the night in a series of blandly identical chain motels.

The distance had built up quickly; by late afternoon on the third day, they'd reached central Missouri. Sam had stopped at a diner in Columbia, ordered ice cream sundaes for everyone, and announced that it was time for the real adventure to begin. He'd turned the car off the main drag and left the eighteen-wheelers screaming down the freeway behind them, while they got happily lost in an endless string of side roads and small towns.

Petra had been distressed, those first three days, at all the interesting sights they'd left unvisited and unstudied; now she and AnnaRose could ask for any stop or side trip they liked. At country intersections, they all took turns choosing what direction to go next; Sam only interposed a veto when it was absolutely necessary to keep from going in circles. Lisa had forgotten what an incredible sense of direction he had. He checked the map every once in a while, but he never seemed to get turned around, no matter how labyrinthine the route became.

That day had been spent rambling around in the Ozarks, almost succeeding in forgetting why they were there. Sam had finally dug out his camera gear from the luggage and taken a whole slew of pictures of little waterfalls in the sunshine, and they'd all turned out exactly like everybody else's photos of sparkly little waterfalls in sunlight. He hadn't bothered to download any of them; he and AnnaRose had deleted them all right off the camera, while they were waiting for their dinner orders in the town's bright and cheerful diner. Petra had provided zapping sound effects, with an occasional whoosh and boom when they'd deep-sixed an especially lame specimen.

Sam had also managed to take several very nice shots of Lisa without her noticing. Neither of the girls had let on, even when he'd skipped past those without deleting any of them.

Tomorrow he'd try to get some shots just when late afternoon was turning into evening, and see if he could catch the light at the right slanty moment, and maybe show how soft and gentle the spring air was, how simple and pure and honest a deep breath of it felt. Right now, it was enough just to fill the lungs and gloat quietly.

Lisa watched Sam closely now, wondering if he'd sit and talk, or bolt back into the room. They'd been living in each other's pockets for five days, but this was the first time they'd been alone with each other. The first time in days – months – no, _years_.

He hesitated, then snagged another one of the cheap white plastic deck chairs, set it where he had a good view of the parking lot and the street below, and settled into it. He buried his hands deep in the pockets of his jacket. "So Petra isn't languishing from embarrassment?"

"No, she's fine. You always were great with kids." _Like your father. I should know._

"Not so great with adults," he muttered.

"I wouldn't say that."

Sam shrugged. Lisa felt the silence start to coagulate. She cleared her throat. "I finally had that talk with AnnaRose earlier this evening, while you were out. About, you know, the secret identities and spying and all that . . . " She drew a deep breath. "Nobody told her anything; she really did figure it out on her own, although her version's pretty, well – "

"Fantastic? Overblown?"

"Romanticised. It seems she decided early on that you and I split up so that you could battle crime and injustice without endangering us."

"Oh." Sam looked nonplussed, then peered over his shoulder intently, studying his back.

"What on earth are you – "

"Figured I'd check to see if I'm wearing a cape." He peered down at his chest. "No fancy logo, either. Man, I gotta get a new costume. No wonder the bad guys don't take me seriously. The last one didn't even bother to gloat or tell me his plans for world domination. I had to figure it all out on my own."

Lisa giggled. "Did you get rescued by the mad scientist's sexy daughter?"

"Wouldn't you know it? She never showed up."

Lisa suddenly found the conversation uncomfortable. Without thinking, she blurted out the first thing that came into her head. "So, are you seeing anyone these days?"

She heard the words come out of her mouth and cringed right down to her toes. She saw Sam start, and shake his head brusquely. He stood up and leaned over the balcony rail. He didn't look at her.

"You're kidding. I'd've thought there'd be someone else by now?" _It's been six years, for God's sake._

"No, Dad's the one who sleeps around, not me." Sam flinched and clapped a hand over his mouth. "Oh, _crap_, tell me I didn't really say that . . . "

"Don't worry. I promise I won't tell." She was speaking very softly. Something deep inside her was fluttering, and she didn't want to startle it. And Sam was looking so upset, and she couldn't think of anything to say that wouldn't mean too much. "So, um, no message from your father, then?"

He looked even more uncomfortable. Lisa frowned at him. "Sam, spill it . . . "

"Okay. There was. Basically, he said to dig the deepest hole we could, jump in, and pull it in after us."

She winced. _Careful what you wish for._

"Lisa, I'm so sorry . . . " Sam made a helpless gesture. "I blew it right from the start, didn't I?"

"What?"

"I should've come with a warning label. 'Adrenaline junkie.' 'Mental health hazard.' Don't get too close . . . " He ran his fingers through his hair, rubbed his eyes – anything to avoid looking at her directly. "Shit, I should've gone back to photography when Petra was born. I had _no right_ to expose you and the girls to this kind of risk – crap, to _any_ kind of risk . . . "

"For god's sake, it's your _father_ who's got the backlog of nutcases from his past. That's why we're hiding!"

"This time! Lisa, I shouldn't've been doing the kind of work that makes enemies," he answered in a dull voice, all the spark flattened out of it.

"Sam, cut it out." Lisa's voice was also flat, but with an edge. "_My_ _father_ makes enemies. He's never made anything else in his life. He's still making them. And he didn't make them by doing the right thing." She realised she was shaking with anger, but not at Sam. "He's never done _anything_ to make a difference, not really. Not anything positive. You and your father . . . " She stood up and walked over to lay a hand on his arm. "Don't you see? It scares the shit out of me, but I really don't want either of you to do anything different from what you're doing right now. I – Sam, I _need_ you to go on doing it. Don't you _dare_ stop."

They heard the door of the motel room creak, and saw Petra's face appear in the opening. "Mom? Dad? What are you arguing about?"

"Your mom – " Sam realised, to his horror, that he was close to tears. He swallowed hard and gave himself a mental shake, and managed to smile at his daughter. "Your mom's just been telling me that she supports my career choices."

"Petra, you're supposed to be in bed." Lisa's voice had automatically shifted to a softer note. "Are you having trouble sleeping, honey?"

"Kinda." Petra opened the door the rest of the way and stood in her faded 'Save the Whales' t-shirt and pajama bottoms. "Um, can I ask you something? It's kinda important." She took a deep breath. Sam saw Lisa brace herself against all the possible horrors a barely pre-teen daughter could offer up. "Mom – Dad – um, would you be really pissed off if I don't become a scientist after all?"

Lisa blinked, and almost laughed in relief. "Honey, you know you can become anything you want to, and your father and I will be proud of you."

"Um, Lisa, that's not really true." She turned and looked at him with an echo of the blank, uncomprehending anger that had clouded the last days of their marriage. Sam pressed on in spite of the shiver that ran down his back. "If you decide to become a drug lord, or a Mafia kingpin, or a corporate pirate, I'm gonna be annoyed. And if you grow up to be an oil executive, I will hunt you down like a rabid camel."

The tension melted as his audience collapsed into snickers. Sam grinned. "Okay. So, seriously. What's on your mind? What do you think you'd like to be?"

His daughter chewed her lip before she blurted out, "Um . . . a _master spy_."

- x -_  
_

Petra had returned to bed, but she was still lying awake, curled up under the covers, when her sister slipped out of the other bed, padded to the window, and peeked out carefully.

"Ewww," said AnnaRose. "Gross."

"Suck it up," advised Petra. "I bet they do it a lot after this."

_You know, I've always been afraid that crazy MacGyver luck would just run out some day._

_I should've known better._

- x -_  
_

MacGyver sat at the big wooden table up in his cabin, hunched over the radio. He hadn't fired up the stove yet and he was still wearing his heavy coat, although the cabin wasn't all that cold in spite of having been left empty for a week. It had been designed to get the most out of passive solar heating, and he'd found several ways to improve the insulation. But the ambient temperature couldn't touch or ease the chill inside himself.

Later, he'd have time to adjust to the drastic rearrangement of his mental furniture. Later.

Right now, he was listening to Nikki's voice on the radio, in full tirade.

"MacGyver, what the hell is going on? You're damned lucky I was still where they could get hold of me. I wasn't expecting a radio check-in at all. Why didn't you email me the – "

"Nikki, the internet's out."

"Oh, for God's sake. Don't tell me your grandkids took your _computer_ apart this time!"

"Nikki, watch what you're saying for pity's sake! They aren't up here with me and you know that! Anyway, I can't tell if the radio's been booby-trapped or not, so I'm using the backup unit. Just in case."

"Just in . . . you mean Felix Sandoval got up there? How?"

"I don't know! I mean, I don't know if he's been here or not. But it makes sense. It's what Murdoc would've done."

"Oh God, Mac, get out now! The whole cabin could be a mass of traps! Are you sure he's been there?"

"No, I'm not sure of anything!" Mac realised he was all but shouting at the radio. "Calm down. Everything looks normal. I haven't found any solid sign that anyone's been here at all since we left. But I'm bein' real careful about what I touch. The computer itself is fine, and the server and the antenna – everything on this end checks out – I think he musta sabotaged the relay station. I'm gonna go take a look. Can you scramble a team to come out here and sweep the cabin while I go check the transmitter?"

"Of course I can, but it'll take a few hours."

"It's gonna take me a few hours to hike up to the relay station."

"Oh hell, that's right – where did you say it was?"

"Mount Pilchuck. And just in case you were gonna ask, yes, I had to put it up that high. It wouldn't've been much use anywhere else."

"MacGyver, you _will_ be careful up there, won't you?"

"Relax, Nikki. I didn't get this old by takin' a lot of stupid risks."

"No, you got this old _in spite of_ taking a lot of stupid risks."

- x -_  
_


	16. Direct Object

**A/N:** _This is actually the former second half of Chapter 15, slightly revised; it really was too long for a single chapter, so I split it in two. The new material is towards the end of the chapter. The next chapter is the epilogue. _

- x -_  
_

**Reverb**

_**Sixteen: Direct Object**_

- x -_  
_

_I guess I'd been playing Old Man of the Mountain for what, eight months? It felt like forever. In all that time, I hadn't visited a store, heard a telephone ring, seen a TV program, or driven a car._

_Once I was behind the wheel of my old Jeep, testing how fast I could take the curves of the mountain roads – okay, yeah, I always do that and it never gets old – I wondered how I'd been able to go so long without driving._

_I didn't miss any of the other stuff, though._

The road up to the Mount Pilchuck trailhead, seven twisted miles of randomly paved and unpaved road cratered with potholes, was a stiff drive even in good weather. In this season, with the snow not yet in full retreat, the gate that barred the access road was closed and padlocked just beyond the trailhead for Heather Lake, a mile and a half up the road. Heather Lake was usually snow-free at this season; the real climb up the mountain began just beyond the gate.

Sally Peterson, the head ranger at the Verlot station, had steadfastly looked the other way when MacGyver had borrowed the key to the gate and made a copy, back when they'd originally negotiated his extralegal relay station. He had made sure she didn't regret the bargain: there was always plenty that needed doing in the ranger district, from equipment breakdown to trail repair. Mac had gradually acquired copies of the keys to several other gates on different access roads, although he could have picked the locks easily enough.

On the other side of the Mount Pilchuck access gate, the patches of residual snowpack began to appear underneath the tree cover on either side of the road within the next couple of miles, but the snow didn't actually start to encroach on the road itself until he was almost at the trailhead. The Jeep took the worsening driving conditions easily. It wasn't a bad day to be rambling in the mountains: the sky was mostly blue, with patches of clouds scuddering across the sun like strobe light signals, driven hard by a stiff wind out of the south. In between the spells of overcast, the sun was warm and gentle on the skin. The parking area at the trailhead was empty of other cars and nearly clear of snow, although it made up for the lack in muddiness.

At this season, the spring runoff was well under way, and lengthy stretches of the trail did double duty as a stream bed. Mac was grateful for waterproof hiking boots and a solid knowledge of the terrain. He climbed the steep trail as quickly as his dicey right knee would allow, taking deeper breaths of the mountain air as he gained altitude. The lower slopes of the mountain bore a thick coat of cedar and hemlock, and silver fir and white pine and Douglas fir; as he climbed, the stands of cedar grew thicker and mountain hemlock began to appear.

He came around a bend to find the path blocked: a massive cedar, an ancient lord of the deep forest, had succumbed to ice or lightning strike that winter, split and toppled, falling right across the trail. Mac wasn't surprised. Something like this happened every winter. Every season saw new upstart trees born into the struggle, while a few old monarchs were lost to the chances of the wilderness and the weather. _Hey, old friend. Did anyone hear you when you fell?_

Mac could barely see over the colossal trunk of the fallen cedar, and both ends were snarled in the thick tangled undergrowth on each side of the trail. He scrambled a few feet up on the uphill side of the deadfall and uncapped the end of his walking stick to reveal a stout spike. He scraped himself a single toehold in the round side of the log, enough to give one foot some purchase as he clambered over, sliding off the other side to land back on the sodden trail with a muddy splash.

He hit the snow line less than halfway up the mountain, although it took some time before the lingering patches spread from the shelter of the shade of the trees out onto the trail itself. Any western or southern-facing slope would have been clear by now; but this section of trail clambered up the north side of the ridge. It quickly devolved into a mushy, slippery footpath tamped on top of the snowpack, paralleled by small, treacherous crevasses that carried the meltwater downslope towards the sea.

Even in this season, there had been other hikers ahead of him; the trail could still be followed by their bootprints. The muddy tracks left smears on each section of snowpack, eventually fading away as the snow-packed stretches of the trail grew longer. The prints were all two days old, or older; it was Tuesday, and the last hikers must have been up here on the weekend. No company, and no distraction. The mountain was almost silent except for the crunch of MacGyver's footfalls and his own laboured breathing. Interwoven with the hush of the rocky landscape was the susurration of the wind in the needles of the hemlock trees, the trickle and gurgle of meltwater gnawing away at the snowpack, and not far ahead of him where the mountainside plunged downwards again, the chatter and roar of a swollen cataract tumbling down from the heights.

The snowpack was uneven, solid in some places and crumbling in others. The trail underneath it, broken rock and scree, was rugged even in good weather. Mac uncapped the spike on his walking stick again and steadied himself as he hiked doggedly upwards. He was breathing deeply from the strenuous climb – it was a stiff pull even for a younger man – but every breath was rich with the natural scents of fir and pine and icy mountain air. His legs were tiring – he'd remembered his knee brace for once, but the knee hurt anyway – but he felt as if he could go on climbing for days. The mountain itself would help him along and keep him going if he flagged.

He let his mind rest in the cradle of the stony slopes, setting aside for the moment the memory of why he was making this climb, quietly wishing deep inside that he'd never have to come down.

- x -_  
_

Félix Sandoval swore, first in English, then in Spanish, as his rented SUV found yet another of the endless string of potholes on the appalling road up the mountain. It had taken him some time to work out exactly where MacGyver was going, and longer to find the place. But his luck was turning, as it inevitably must: there was no way down the mountain other than this road. MacGyver was headed up a blind alley, with nowhere to turn to escape and no help for miles.

He had to force the simple padlock on the gate that barred the road, and the twisting road on the other side was treacherous beyond belief. Snow began to appear under the trees and creep out onto the road at an impossibly low altitude. Félix set his teeth, downshifted and plowed on. He finally reached the trailhead and found MacGyver's empty Jeep parked in plain sight, with a crystal-clear set of bootprints leading upwards and away.

_Run, MacGyver, run. Murdoc is coming. Soon, there will be no place to run._

Félix frowned, puzzled, at the wooden box on its stand at the head of the trail; he lifted the hinged lid to find a battered ball-point pen and the trail register. Most of the lined sheets of paper were blank; the few names on the top sheet were mostly dated two days previously, the last day of the previous weekend. The old fool had _signed_ it: the final entry bore a single scrawled word, 'MacGyver'. Date: today; number in party: 1. The space for 'destination' had been left blank. Félix smiled mirthlessly, took the pen and neatly printed _the grave_.

_Run while you can. Murdoc is coming for you at last._

Before he killed MacGyver, he would force the old man to tell him where the body was buried. He would go to the grave and tell his teacher how the student had excelled, tell his master that it was done, their name was cleared, the record finally perfect.

_Your name – our name – will be in everyone's mouth. The fear of you, of us, will catch in their throats and choke them as they lie awake at night, afraid to sleep._

MacGyver's trail was childishly easy to follow in spite of the rugged conditions: deep fresh bootmarks in the countless muddy stretches where the runoff had soaked the trail, neat round pockmarks from a walking stick, fallen boughs cut or pushed away where they had blocked the trail, even a freshly-cut foothold in a huge log that had fallen across the way. Félix sneered. MacGyver's arrogance was beyond belief. Did the man have no caution at all? Did he think to live forever? The prey wasn't running; the footprints were evenly spaced, a steady tread on up and up the steep mountain trail.

Félix clambered over the great log, hunching his shoulders against the damp chill and the encroaching weight of the dark, heavy trees that pressed around him with their smothering, feathery-needled branches. The damp was to be expected, but he was used to forests that were hot, not cold, and certainly not such a grim misery of thick, dripping, clammy, misty, muddy gloom.

And the sun, the damned sun, when he actually caught a glimpse of it, always in the wrong place. For all the countries he'd visited as he prepared for and finally entered his chosen profession, for all the time he'd spent at higher latitudes, the sharp angle of that northern sun never felt right. It still made his skin twitch to see the sun slink around so low in the sky. And the damned trees, crowding in – the jungle was the realm of _Indios _and _narcos_, or worse – _guerrillas _and _pishtacos_, demons from childhood nightmare. Decent people didn't skulk in the forests, cowering under the thick trees like animals in burrows. There was no air here for a man to breathe.

It was a relief when he finally broke out from under the trees and reached the higher clear ground, although the damp, gnawing cold of the alpine wind bit through his jacket. He wasn't all that high up – this pitiful 'mountain' wouldn't even rank as a hill amongst the indomitable Andes – but the icy air that flowed down the mountainside stole his breath, set his teeth grinding, pressed a glacial weight against his face.

The footpath across the top of the snowpack reached a saddle between a rocky spire and a line of rough-hewn crags. If anything, the terrain was even more broken than before, picking its way amongst shattered boulders; but the going became less steep for a short precious stretch, a relief to aching legs and battered feet.

Ahead loomed another, higher ridge; but the old man's bootprints broke away from the trail here and led off to the left, following the less punishing slope of the saddle, veering towards the tumbled edge of a cliff overlooking an alpine valley. Tall evergreen trees, swagged with snow, dotted the valley around two small ice-bound lakes set like pewter pebbles in the white and green landscape. For all the marks he could see in the snow, they could be the first men ever to walk here – but no, MacGyver's transmitter must be here somewhere, where the cliff fell away from the high saddle. Good. The old man would be absorbed in his task and unwary, easier to take by surprise and stealth.

Before he killed MacGyver, he would make him suffer, make him scream and weep and beg. It should be easy: up here on these cliffs, the weak old fool would be vulnerable as nowhere else. Murdoc had told him how MacGyver feared heights.

He had told him so many things, taught him so well, the man who was his true father, the nurturer of his real self. It had been the boy's reward whenever he won a round in their long-drawn-out battle of wits, and the coin with which Murdoc had purchased what smuggled comforts Félix could bring him. Murdoc had talked, down there in the dark, and he had listened, and after the man was gone the boy had held every word close to his heart and told them over again and again like the beads of the rosary, keeping the words alive, studying his teacher's lessons. As a man, they spoke with the same voice and thought with one mind.

MacGyver's tracks led over broken stone and across more patches of snow, the footing growing more treacherous. The marks of his boots were deeper, here where the trail hadn't been trodden down. Félix could see the round imprints of the walking stick as well, the spiked end dug deep into the snow for purchase. The top of the cliff was a great swath of smooth granite, with rippling broken curves that ledged in the wrong direction. Félix' foot slipped, but he caught and steadied himself; the tracks still led onwards. He unslung the rifle he was carrying and used it to test the next patch of snow he crossed, careful of unseen holes. There was a copse of trees below him, and he saw that the snow on the lower branches was recently disturbed. MacGyver's transmitter must be there, or farther along; it looked as if a ledge led back along the curve of the cliff . . .

Félix' feet both slipped, and this time he could not keep from toppling; he barely held on to his rifle as he careened down the slick, icy rock surface, airborne for an infinitely long and terrible moment until he crashed into the hedge of trees, grabbing at the largest one. A great damp mass of snow slid off the branches onto his head, but he held on, and somehow kept his gun as well.

Beyond the cluster of spindly evergreens was nothing but empty air. The trees barely kept a toehold on the side of the cliff: the one that had stopped his fall was tall but gangly, wind-warped, while the others were small and shrunken. He found a final set of boot prints from his quarry, but there was no ledge, no path. No more tracks. No transmitter. Félix looked around frantically. No way up, down, or sideways.

No sign of MacGyver.

The voice that drifted down to him from somewhere above was a sardonic drawl.

" 'Bout time you showed up. I was gettin' tired of waitin' for you."

Félix whipped his head around, but all he saw was slick rock and ice, snow and trickling meltwater, and the scrawny trees around him that wouldn't bear his weight nearly well enough to help him out of the trap.

The voice came again, and he heard the scuff of boots almost directly above him. "Y'know something, Felix? Murdoc _never _woulda fallen for that."

"You knew I was following you." Félix choked the words out.

"Well, duh. I s'pose I coulda made the trail a bit more obvious, but neon signs are kinda heavy, y'know? Oh, and here's something else," MacGyver added cheerfully. "I don't even _have_ a backup radio."

An awful silence followed, finally broken. "You knew I would be listening to your call?"

"It was real predictable. And there was never a problem with my internet connection."

"No problem – where the hell _is_ that damned transmitter? I don't see anything!"

"There's an old fire lookout on the top of the mountain. I put it there."

"Not here at all?"

"Well, y'see, the bounce station has to be in line-of-sight with both the originating signal in Everett _and_ the pickup antenna near my cabin. We're only halfway up the mountain, and on the wrong side. Look around, Felix. Can you see my house from up here?"

"_You_ set a trap for _me_! This was _all_ a trap! You filthy _bastard!_"

"Oo, that one's gonna cost you some points," Mac drawled. "I _never_ heard Murdoc use that kinda language."

The language that followed was much worse. Under stress, it seemed, Félix forgot he was supposed to be British; or maybe he simply knew more Spanish invective. Or liked the way it sounded. MacGyver waited until the litany ran out. He was pretty sure Félix had covered a good deal of Mac's parentage on both sides for several generations back, along with various aspects of diet, recreation, and personal hygiene, but he couldn't follow the particulars. Not that he felt like trying. He couldn't even tell whether the various animal species named were supposed to be his ancestors, his siblings, or his bed partners.

Finally, Félix ran dry – or maybe he'd started to get cold, now that he was no longer moving around. There was a pretty stiff wind blowing downslope from the snowfields, and the sun had gone back behind the clouds again.

"Okay, so now that you've got all that out of your system, are you ready to come up and play nice?" Mac asked amiably.

"What?"

"I've got a rope here, Felix. The one I used to reach that same spot safely, and to climb back up from it after I'd left you a nice clear trail."

"You . . . " but it seemed Félix had run out of curses. "Very well." He had recovered his English vocabulary and accent, although the tone was sulky. The insouciance had evaporated.

"Good. You can start by tossin' away your firearms."

"What?"

"You think I'm gonna haul you up this cliff armed? Pitch 'em. _Now_. Or sit there till you learn to fly. I'm in no hurry. Although – we've got less than three hours of full daylight left, and this trail's no fun after dark, so you better make up your mind pretty soon."

One last vicious expletive was followed by a loud metallic clattering, then another, each one leaving a series of echoes against hard stone. One rifle, one heavy pistol, at a guess.

"Good start. Heads up."

What Félix saw dangled down to him was not a rope, but a length of thin cord. Tied to the end was a large paper clip, partly unfolded to form a hook.

"What the bloody hell is that supposed to be?" the young man sputtered.

"It's a fishing line. You see, I figure you've got at least two knives, another gun and a garrotte in reserve. So you're gonna take off everything you're wearin', one item at a time, and attach 'em to the line. I get to reel them in and see what fun stuff I can find in your clothes. It's kinda like a carnival game we play with our kids here in the States," MacGyver said cheerfully. "I'll be checkin' over each item as I bring it up. Anything that's got a concealed weapon goes back over the edge. Understand? Anything I've still got up here, when you're clean and I bring _you_ up, you can put back on." The line twitched, the paper clip hook swaying back and forth. "So you might wanna think about how uncomfortable the hike home is gonna be if you're just wearin' shorts and socks, for example. Or nothin' at all."

Mac heard a thin metallic clatter rattling on the tumbled rocks below them as Félix surrendered his first reserve weapon – a knife, judging from the sound. The next set of hard cracks and clanking must be a gun, probably a small pistol. When the clothes began to come up, he found a thin razor wire in the hem of the shirt and a nasty item in the collar of the jacket – a miniature spike almost as thin as a needle, with a small knobbed handle. In skilled hands, it could puncture a throat or lung, or tear out a jugular vein. MacGyver sent both garments sailing over the cliff, in Félix' sight but far beyond his reach, to float down and snag on the treetops below them.

"I did warn you," Mac remarked. "Normally, I don't approve of littering in state parks, but I'll make sure the mess gets cleaned up before hiking season gets going. Seems a shame, though. That was a nice jacket."

More obscenities followed, this time in English. More clattering as items were dropped – some metal, at least one plastic, and an unrecognisable thud that puzzled Mac. He decided not to ask. The rest of Félix' clothes passed muster, even the hiking boots. Once he was sure he'd checked everything, MacGyver returned the young man's pants and socks. Hypothermia wouldn't make the kid any easier to handle.

_Nothin' left except the kid himself. Of course, guns and knives and other things don't kill people, people who kill kill people, with anything they can get their hands on._

At last, Félix saw the end of the rope dropping towards him instead of the damned string and paper clip hook. He grasped it firmly and began to climb easily, hand over hand, bracing his feet against the slippery granite face of the cliff. He could finally catch a glimpse of the man standing on the brink above him, the tall form with the greying hair riffled by the chill breath of the mountain. MacGyver was a lean silhouette against the bright sky above the peak, paying out the thin lifeline of the rope.

The young Murdoc made sure he had his balance right. He had clambered up to about the level of the upper branches of the tree that had broken his tumble before. Now he set his feet against the wall of rock and yanked on the rope in one sudden, brutal pull, throwing all his weight and the full force of arm and leg muscles into the effort, launching himself off the cliff face towards the tree. He could catch himself on it again, and use the rope to climb _down_ the cliff after his victory . . .

_Aw, maan . . . _ Mac was tempted to just let go of the rope, but the kid would fall for sure if he did that. He let himself be dragged off the edge and down, until all the slack was gone on the line that lashed his climbing harness to the stout old hemlock just behind him. The turns and knots in the harness pinched him as he took Félix' full weight.

_Real__ predictable . . . !_

He could see the kid's face all too clearly as the shock of realisation and frustration contorted the features, an ugly echo of the twisted, scarred hatred on Murdoc's face. Then came a different realisation as Félix hit the treetop and the thin, winter-brittle branches broke under him. He had lost his hold on the rope when MacGyver's fall came to its unexpected stop; now he grabbed at the slender ends of the twigs, yelling with pain as the needles dug into his palms.

The hemlock branches were too slick, too soft and slender. The boy's hands slipped, more branches snapped, and the screeching became a long, drawn-out scream as Félix plummeted like a stone.

MacGyver didn't hear his own name in the falling scream – there were no words at all, not even fear, only anger and outrage. The sound didn't last long. The echoes were still ricocheting off the surrounding cliffs when the cry ended with a sickening thud and a clatter of sliding stones at the foot of the drop.

The echoes died away and the mountain was silent, even the wind falling to a hush. Mac couldn't see the body where it lay at the foot of the cliff, but he knew it was there. It would still be there when they came to collect it.

He hauled himself back up on his own lifeline, freed himself from the tree, coiled the rope over his shoulder and chest and turned to begin the long hike back down the mountain.

- x -_  
_

MacGyver stood in the parking area by the trailhead, his hands stuffed deep into his coat pockets, watching the machinery of officialdom grinding away. Full dark had long since fallen, but under the blaze of floodlights, blue police uniforms and green park ranger uniforms mingled and eddied with civilians in suits or casual wear. One end of the parking lot had been designated as a landing area for the chopper; Lupe had taken a very long look at his face, given him a very long, warm, wordless hug, and then left him alone.

Félix' body had already been retrieved – no difficulty finding it even in the falling dusk, and no worries over identity. So simple. MacGyver wouldn't even need to jimmy his way into Félix' rented SUV or hot-wire it so it could be taken back down the mountain; the keys had been in the kid's pocket. Mac had confiscated them during the shakedown on the cliffs.

_So simple. Nothin' left but the paperwork._ And Nikki would do the heavy lifting on that. She was deep in conversation with the FBI agent who'd come up from Seattle. The guy still looked poleaxed – possibly from the international ramifications of this simple hiking fatality, possibly because he'd tried to get in Nikki's way, or patronise her. Mac grinned momentarily. If he had, he was lucky not to be showing tire marks on his nice white shirt.

They were getting ready to take the body away. This time, there would be no clandestine burial in an unmarked grave in the hills; it would taken back to Seattle and probably repatriated. Esperanza Rojas was still alive, although she had remarried: some high-ranking goon in the Peruvian Army, one of the many who had been saved from prison by the government's blanket amnesty for the atrocities committed during the long years of unrest and insurgency. _Mass murderers: the sunset years. Do they flip through old scrapbooks of their victims? Compare notes?_

The Blackberry in his pocket buzzed, startling him. He'd tried to text Sam earlier, but he didn't think he'd gotten through. The parking area wasn't in line-of-sight with his relay station, so he had to rely on ordinary coverage, which varied between sporadic and mythical.

He checked. Yes, Sam had received the personal message he'd sent: _All clear, come in from the cold any time._

_Aw, Dad, do I have to? It's nice and warm here. Just five more minutes?_

Mac was still studying the message when an indicator flashed: Sam had opened their encrypted chat client. _Whuzzup? You okay?_

_I'm fine._

_What happened?_

_Tell you later. The signal's lousy out here – can't trust the connection._

_Dad! Don't you leave me hanging like this!_

_Okay, okay. Old age and treachery have defeated youth and skill._

_Treacherous? You? Gimme a break._

Mac's face felt oddly stretched; he realised that he was actually smiling. It wasn't much of a smile, but at least his face still remembered how to do it. _Okay, old age and sneakiness._

_I'll buy the sneakiness. We'll talk about this 'old age' hallucination later._

The signal cut out, and Mac glowered at the 'Searching . . .' indicator on the small screen.

Nikki had told him that the Murdoc file would be formally closed. That grotesquely intimate relationship was over at last now. Félix' mother would bury him, and weep, and probably have Masses said for his soul, not knowing he hadn't had one. MacGyver remembered Anne Cooke's delicate uneasiness about her son, and Jacqui Murry's caustic memories of hers. Neither of them had wept, at least not in front of him. Murdoc had been a twisted branch on a tangled family tree – or maybe a briar patch, or a thicket of stinging poisonous weeds.

_Sorry you're not here to see it all end, Pete . . . but you were there when it started . . ._

A green uniform separated from the maelstrom and hurried over to him as Sally Peterson found an opening and broke away from the people demanding her attention. "You okay?"

"I'm fine."

Sally gave him a hard look. "Bull."

"Gee, thanks."

"Any time." She waited for a moment, then shrugged and nodded. "You gonna need a fresh supply of logs to chop soon?"

"I might."

"Let me know. And we've got a new set of washouts on the Wonderland Trail, if you feel like you need a field trip."

"I'll keep it in mind." Mac caught her arm as she turned away. "Thanks, Sally."

She hugged him hard and let him go. "Any time."

Hard on Sally's heels came Nikki, brisk and brusque. "You okay?"

"What is this? Do I look like I'm about to keel over or something?"

Nikki raised an eyebrow at his curt tone. "Okaaay. Fine. The bomb squad's finally finished going over your Jeep."

" 'Bout time. You shoulda let me do it myself."

"I needed you to get that statement made. Besides, you have to let other people get in a little practice once in a while."

Mac didn't return her tentative smile. "How many nasty little surprises did they find?"

Nikki's smile blinked out like a camera shutter. "Three."

"No kidding?"

"Were you expecting more? Or fewer?"

Mac made a random gesture. "Felix may not've been wired too tightly, and he was way out of his depth once he followed me up here, but that doesn't mean he wasn't deadly. How many people has he killed so far, that we know about? We both know just how dangerous crazy people can be."

Nikki brushed her fingers along the side of her own neck, where the shallow cuts from Félix' knife were healing cleanly. "Yes. I know." She studied his face, her eyes concerned. "Are you _sure_ you're okay?"

MacGyver tried to make a light comment, but found himself blurting out, "He lost hold of the rope." There was a catch in his voice, and he hadn't intended to say anything at all, and he cussed inwardly at letting the crack show.

"You mean Felix?" Nikki's voice was soft, a gentle nudge to talk.

Mac shut his eyes, but he couldn't shut his memory. The scream was still echoing in his mind, still reverberating off the sheer cliffs where he'd set his trap – his deathtrap. "I didn't think he'd be that dumb. Nikki, I gave him enough slack to tie on to the rope . . . I never figured he'd be so, so _careless_ . . . "

She wrapped her arms around him and hugged him, and he held on until the sound of the wordless scream dimmed and faded. _Not gonna think about that_ . . . MacGyver made himself listen, instead, to the sounds that hummed along outside the man-made racket in the parking area: the wind in the trees and the cheerful soft chatter of snowmelt running down the mountain, eagerly searching out the river and the sea. Nikki's hug felt familiar and comfortable, a wordless expression of unconditional support, solid as the mountain itself, with all her formidable strength of will behind it. He could feel the warmth of her body through her coat and his own. _Not gonna think about that either._

After several minutes, she felt him draw a deep breath and steady himself, and she let go. An impatient shout from the eddying throng called her away.

Mac wandered back towards the trailhead; he had left his hiking staff propped up against the big Forest Service sign that warned hikers against the dangers of the back country, and reminded drivers that a parking permit was required for the area. Mac smiled grimly. His Jeep was the only vehicle in the current swarm that actually had the necessary permit. _I don't think Sally's gonna ticket Felix' car. Although she might ticket that Hummer the FBI guy drove up in, just to score a point._

Mac looked up at the dark tunnel of the trail where it beckoned: he was tempted to start walking again, upwards, to get away from the noise and clamour and bright artificial lights, the loud chatter and babble – the FBI guy was talking on a satellite phone, and from the nasal roar of his voice, you'd think he was using a tin can on a string.

It would take a stiff forty-five minutes of climbing to reach the first good clear space, where he'd be able to look out over the folded hills under the night sky, towards the mountain peaks of the deeper wilderness. There was a waxing moon in the mostly-clear sky, and there would be stars visible as well once he got away from the glare, enough light to reflect off the snow that still lay heavy on the peaks and well down the slopes. He'd be able to see a few sparks of man-made light from the occasional residence; his own cabin was out that way, although it wouldn't be showing any light right now. He'd have the lights back on there soon, though.

_Back to the chopping block._ But the fishing would be getting better by now – the previous summer and fall, he'd hiked himself to exhaustion three days out of five, visiting every stream, lake and fishing pond for miles around. It hadn't mattered if the fishing was any good; the point had been to paralyse his brain with unremitting strenuous activity, so he could not only fall asleep at night, but get out of bed the next day and keep going. That had been much harder. It had gotten harder still when the onset of winter had closed off most of the trails, leaving him nothing but the woodpile.

MacGyver realised he was grasping his hiking staff in both hands as if it had been an axe handle. But the gut-wrenching grief hadn't swooped in on him this time; just a ripple of melancholy like the sweet tang of frost in early morning air. He blinked his eyes a few times, straightened his shoulders, eased his chokehold on the staff and leaned on it instead, resting.

_Rest in peace, old friend. Real peace, now it's over. It's all finished._

_Hey, Pete. Just in case you've been wonderin' . . . I really __am__ gonna be okay._

- x -

_~ epilogue to follow ~_


	17. Future Imperfect

**Reverb**

_**Future Imperfect**_

_~ a __gratuitous__ epilogue ~_

- x -_  
_

One of these days, AnnaRose was going to hit another growth spurt, and get too big to ride on MacGyver's shoulders. Till then, he was going to make the most of every opportunity, even though it was awkward going under the trees up to the helicopter landing field near the cabin. She was good at ducking, but it often meant her grip slipped from his forehead. It had quickly turned into a game: when she grabbed his ears, he'd start singing off-key, and when her hands covered his eyes, he'd exclaim "Wow! When did it get so dark?" and start to wander off the path.

It made the walk a lot longer than usual. Petra would have run ahead, but she was laughing too hard. She always lightened up when the girls were up at the cabin; she didn't have to try so hard to be older when it was just the three of them.

With the slow pace, the chopper had already landed by the time they got here, and Sam and Lisa had emerged, hand in hand.

The rotor blades had stopped their gyrations, but Mac's grey hair still riffled in the breeze that flowed across the meadow. His hair was already getting too long again – he was going to have to get it cut soon. He tended to put it off for as long as he could, but really it got too hot once the days started warming up. The spring was well advanced for the time of year; the alders and the maples were already showing their first half-unfurled leaves. Petra had abandoned MySpace for BlogSpot, and her new home page featured blurry photos of the trillium and bleeding-heart that were blooming profusely near the cabin.

"So how have our little terrorists behaved?" Lisa asked. "Did they keep up on their homework?"

"Yashuryoubetcha," MacGyver declared with a grin. "So have I."

"We taught Grandpa to Tweet!" Petra announced.

"Aw, _great_." Sam rolled his eyes, scooped up AnnaRose and lifted her to his eye level to look at her seriously. "Dad's joined the Dark Side, and it's all your fault?"

"Luke, i m ur father," Mac intoned in a deep, breathy voice. Sam punched his arm.

Mac's cheerful mood evaporated when he saw who else was climbing out of the helicopter.

"_Nikki?_ What the heck are you doin' here?" His face creased with alarm. "Aw, man, you are _not _gonna tell me you've got _another_ nutjob serial killer runnin' loose – "

Nikki gave him a cheery, unperturbed smile. "Why, it's nice to see you too, MacGyver. I always appreciate the warm, friendly welcome I get whenever I come up here."

The worry faded into chagrin. "Look, I'm sorry. I didn't expect you is all."

The smile became brighter. "I hitched a lift."

"Yeah, right." Chagrin was crowded out by wariness.

"It's true!" Lupe chimed in. "She just showed up and said she was coming along. But look at what she brought! It's a good thing Lisa and Sam are so skinny, with all this extra weight!"

Sam, Lisa and Lupe were already unloading the small mountain of supplies: hampers and boxes and bags, and three portable coolers. MacGyver's mouth watered when he saw how much fresh fruit they'd brought up. He'd run out again halfway through the girls' visit.

"You don't think I'd crash a party and not bring food, do you? We brought hot dogs and hamburgers and sausages . . . " The bright, bland expression on Nikki's face dissolved into whole-hearted laughter at the look on Mac's face. "Oh, lighten up, Euell Gibbons. I'm pulling your leg. Your buddy Nicholas from the S'Klallam tribe sent up a twenty-pound wild salmon from last season's catch. It's already defrosted and prepped for grilling."

"Um, is there some kinda occasion I didn't know about?" He eyed Sam suspiciously. The long solo trip for Sam and Lisa was supposed to have been private time, so they could talk in peace and see if they could work things out – he hoped they hadn't gone off half-cocked and actually eloped. The girls were counting on a real wedding.

"Silly Grampa!" AnnaRose punched his leg. "It's Mom's birthday!"

Mac frowned down at her. "You sure?" He turned to Lisa. "Didn't you have one of those just last year?"

She smacked him lightly in the chest with her small fist. Mac recognised the ring on her hand. Sam had bought it for her in Peru when they'd been there in 1996 – when Murdoc – anyway. It wasn't an antiquity or even a knock-off; it was an original piece by a _mestizo _jeweler whose work featured indigenous motifs. The ring was chased gold, with a design of a bird in flight and a lot of swirly lines; Sam had thought it looked like a phoenix, although Peruvian mythology didn't have an equivalent. Mac hadn't seen her wear it for years. But she had kept it, and now she was wearing it again . . . a good sign.

"Okay, who wants tofu?" That got him mock punches from all sides. _Nothing like bein' surrounded by family._

- x -_  
_

"Beautiful. Beautiful," Lupe was murmuring. "_Magnifico_." She was standing on a wide rocky outcrop above the rushing river, peering through binoculars at the gaunt outline of a skeletal tree on the far side of the canyon. The great shaggy mass of dead twigs and branches perched in the fork of the tree made her think of MacGyver's hair, but she thought it was better not to mention that to his granddaughters.

"_Magnifi__ca_," Petra corrected. "That's the female eagle."

Lupe ruffled her hair. "Little pedant."

Petra pointed. "That's the male eagle, coming back to the nest now. You see he's got something green in his beak? That's a little branch from a pine tree. Nobody knows why he does that, but that's what he does."

Lupe walked back to where AnnaRose was standing, proffering the binoculars. She was hanging an additional fifteen feet back from the edge of the overlook. "Here. Your turn. You'll see better if you come a little more forward, you know. Would you like me to hold onto you?"

AnnaRose considered the offer, then nodded her head. Lupe held her hand tightly as she carefully walked a few feet closer to the edge.

"I wish I could fly too," the girl said as she watched the female eagle launch itself from the tree.

"Silly! You won't even look when the helicopter takes off!" Petra scolded. "You couldn't fly even if you had fairy wings!"

"I could too! If I had wings, I wouldn't mind. Grampa can fly, and he hates heights too."

"Grampa's special." Both girls nodded at that.

Lupe nodded too. "He does not fear flying. Only falling. He told me once that flying is different."

"Really?" AnnaRose looked thoughtful and hopeful.

Petra was studying the eagles again. "This is the _third_ new nest we got to add to the list just this year! See, Lupe? It's _way_ nicer when you aren't in the helicopter. You always land and then take off again right away. It's silly."

"I don't wish to overstay my welcome, little one," Lupe replied softly. She glanced over her shoulder, looking wistfully back up the trail. MacGyver and Sam were standing at a different overlook not far upstream, visible silhouettes against the sky, talking.

"You better make it work." MacGyver sounded grumpy and harsh, but Sam knew he didn't mean it. "No movin' back in with me this time. I mean it."

"Whatever happened to _mi casa es su casa_?"

"That's my casa, not my couch. My couch is _my_ couch."

Sam grinned. "Deal." He glanced quickly down the path and saw that both his daughters were still intact. Lupe had even managed to coax AnnaRose a little closer to the edge, close enough to see the eagles more clearly. "So what're you going to do now? You sure you don't want the job back?"

"Are you ever gonna stop asking that?"

"Just checking."

"I like what I'm doin' now just fine." Mac looked across the canyon at the nest – three eggs in this one, the best yet – and down at the river, contemplating how soon the fishing would improve after the spring runoff was over. "It was kinda nice, going months without anyone shooting at me. Good thing. I'm not so quick at dodging these days."

- x -_  
_

It figured, Nikki thought. She'd put a lot of effort into coming up here, hoping to find an opportunity to talk to MacGyver. Instead, here she was, talking to his daughter-in-law. At least they did have more to talk about than just MacGyver. It wasn't as if the world revolved around him, after all.

"What's up with Petra's hair?"

"Sam cut it short, remember? When we first went off to hide."

"No, I mean the colour."

"Oh, that happens every year," Lisa said. "She starts spending time out in the sun, and it lightens up really fast. She got a head start this spring is all. And with her hair so short, it shows a lot more."

They were enjoying the afternoon sunlight and the sudden peace and quiet that had settled around the cabin when Mac and Sam and the girls had hauled Lupe off to see the most recent eagles' nest. Lisa was sitting at the picnic table Mac had built in the clearing in front of the cabin, picking crumbs off a leftover heel of bread and tossing them to the birds. Nikki was lounging in a canvas-backed chair, her face tilted up to the sun, her eyes closed, basking in the gentle warmth.

"So the kids are all right with it?" Nikki asked after a few minutes' silence.

Lisa laughed. "More than all right. They're almost smug. AnnaRose is halfway to convincing herself that she and Petra somehow engineered it – she's got a very lively imagination."

"What about you?"

"Me? I don't know where the imagination comes from, but she sure didn't get it from me."

Nikki made an exasperated noise. "I _mean_, how are you doing with the whole relationship reboot?"

A squirrel had chased off the birds from the scattered bread. Lisa laughed again as a Steller's jay dive-bombed the squirrel, a noisy blue-and-black feathered missile, and claimed the field. "I feel like I won the lottery or something."

"You're really going to give it another try?"

"Nikki – you do remember, right, that I landed that contract with the VA? Half the clients I've got right now are veterans of the last few wars. Men – _and_ women – who left their families and went off to do something dangerous.

"A lot of them, their lives have fallen apart, and we're putting the pieces back together. My _god_, Nikki. They fight so hard to keep going, to keep things intact. It makes me feel ashamed. I didn't put up a fight – or when I did, my fighting only tore things apart."

She tilted her head up to watch a huge bird that was soaring effortlessly high above the clearing, its wings hardly seeming to move. "My patients – they had to be gone from home for months, or even years, for god's sake. Sam was never gone for more than a few weeks. Except that one time – "

Nikki broke in. "I'm still sorry about that. It took us almost a month just to find out where he was being held, and once we did find him – "

"You think I've forgotten? It took MacGyver eight days to get him and bring him home. By that time – oh, Nikki, I don't know. I'd gone through Hell and back, and I wouldn't take it out on the girls, so I took it out on Sam. I was ashamed of it even then. I'd feel worse about it now, except Sam keeps insisting that he understands."

"Psychiatrist, heal thyself?"

Lisa gave a brittle laugh. "Shouldn't that be 'Physician, bill thyself'? I wish I could. Just say a few magic words that are exactly the right ones, and everything will be all right."

"Yeah. I guess we'd all like to be able to do that."

Lisa's smile returned, although it was shaky around the edges. "I did say the magic words again, finally. Three words. Sam said them back. We aren't all healed, but we're trying. This time we'll keep trying. _I'll_ keep trying. I'm not sure I really did before. Sam did. He tried like hell, when he was there."

They sat in companionable silence for several minutes before Lisa spoke again. "What about you?"

Nikki half opened one eye, raising her hand to screen out the sunlight. "What?"

"Well, I couldn't help noticing. You aren't fighting with MacGyver so much these days."

"What? You heard us earlier – "

"You're still _arguing_. There's a difference."

Nikki inspected her empty cup. There were no disposable dishes at this picnic; Mac had a few hardy plastic tumblers and a motley collection of coffee mugs. She pulled herself up out of her chair and walked over to the small cooler that held the entire supply of alcohol for the picnic: three bottles of beer from a local microbrewery owned by a friend of Sam's, and a single bottle of white wine for herself. Lupe wouldn't drink within six hours of flying, and Lisa had one more year to go for her 20-year sobriety medal.

Lisa started in again as Nikki refilled her coffee cup with wine. "The thing that I don't understand – that I've _never _understood – is why you were so hostile in the first place."

"I was _not_ – " Nikki caught herself before she launched all the way into the budding tirade. "What do you know about it? You weren't even there."

"People talk." Lisa shrugged. "I've been hanging around Phoenix for more than half my whole life. You must be practically the only person who just plain didn't like MacGyver at all when you first met him – well, not counting all the people who've tried to kill him, of course. Nikki, it really _is_ unusual." She drew a deep breath. "You know how much I admire you. But before I met you, I hated you, because you didn't like my hero."

"I wasn't _that_ bad – " Nikki began.

"No, but I was."

Nikki met the younger woman's eyes: frankly curious, faintly embarrassed. She sighed, looked down at the coffee mug in her hand, took a drink, watched the sunlight sparkling in the pale liquid. "I hadn't planned on a therapy session," she said tartly.

She was surprised at the heat of Lisa's reply. The younger woman flushed. "I'm still on vacation, and I wouldn't have you as a patient anyway." Nikki blinked, and Lisa's hackles settled down again. "Oh, don't look like that! It would be a violation of professional ethics, for heaven's sake. I'd have to refer you to someone else." A loud squawk distracted them both; another bluejay, or maybe the same one, had landed on a nearby branch and was complaining that no food was in sight. "I can't recommend Dr. Jay here, though. He interrupts too much."

"I'm not sure I'd want to talk to him anyway. He seems pretty self-centred." She studied the mug, which sported a ridiculous cartoon image of a camel peering out of a backpack. "Lisa, can you even begin to understand just how hard it was to be a professional woman in those days? Especially in the kind of work I did? Don't get me wrong – I'm _glad_ it's hard for young women to understand – it shows how far we've come. But still. I had to be a hard-ass just to be taken seriously. When I was working in Washington, doing legwork for congressional investigations, I had to be ten times as good as any of the men to be given half the credit. That kind of crap will give _anyone_ an 'attitude problem'."

"But Phoenix was _different!_ Wasn't it?"

"Good god, of course it was different! But it was a long time before I could believe that, and even longer before I could trust it."

Lisa had stopped watching the birds. The jay hopped down from the branch onto the picnic table, stole the remaining piece of bread and flew away, but she hardly glanced at it.

"When things got bad – when some jackass in a suit tried to take credit for my work or play down what I'd achieved, when my boss expected sex instead of competence or handed out lewd comments instead of commendations, when I'd been called a bitch just for standing up for myself – I'd remind myself that I'd never met a man who was smarter than I was." Nikki shrugged. "It was true, you see. They don't grow them very bright in Washington. I dealt with an endless stream of hotshots who got away with sloppy work, when I couldn't get away with anything less than delivering minor miracles." She sipped from her mug. "Have you ever seen MacGyver do his 'dumb blond' routine?"

"His _what?_"

"You know what I mean – when he plays the dumb hick to get someone to underestimate him. It's very effective, and he's good at it. Or he'll use his charm – _and_ his looks – to get what he needs. He can do that, and nobody judges him for it. Do you understand?"

"Yes . . . um, no."

"When I did the same thing, the reaction was completely different. I could play the dumb bunny or the sex kitten, or distract someone by wiggling my way across a room; but afterwards, it wasn't treated as a charade. Afterwards, my colleagues would act as if I'd just proved that I really _was_ a brainless bimbo."

"But MacGyver . . . he wasn't like that, was he? He _must _have been different . . . "

"I'd had such a rough ride by then, I expected trouble. I started every day braced for it, and when it didn't come – when it didn't pop up and hit me in the face – I couldn't relax and assume it wasn't going to happen. I just braced myself even harder. And the timing was even worse than that . . . you see, I had a little brother, Danny. And he had just been murdered by a charming, dashing, swaggering ladies' man who just happened to be a jewel thief. And barely a year before _that_, my first husband had been murdered by the Mob."

"Wow." Lisa's eyes were round. "What was he like? Your husband, I mean?"

Nikki's eyes had grown distant. "Oh, funny you should ask . . . Adam was a good friend of Danny's. And he was just like him. They were both charming, handsome, reckless men whose first impulse was to dash madly into whatever trouble turned up."

"Oh." Lisa looked across the clearing to where the trail led out up the river, where MacGyver and Sam had gone, family and guest in tow. "_Oh_."

"Yes. You get the idea. After I first met MacGyver, it took me a while to believe he wasn't just another irresponsible, charming, handsome, reckless bastard." Her voice picked through the words like a grocery list. "And by that time, I had him pegged as an immature, charming, handsome, feckless daredevil. I guess I thought that if I let myself care, he'd get killed too. I think I expected him to get killed anyway. And I couldn't bear that." She smiled ruefully. "As long as I stayed annoyed at MacGyver, I could keep him at a distance. It turned into a habit."

"Well, you were right about the handsome part . . . " Lisa murmured.

Nikki gave her a sardonic look. "Are you sure you married the right one?"

Lisa winced. "Please, don't go there. I go there often enough, when I'm in the wrong kind of mood." She looked at the wine in Nikki's mug for a moment, almost longingly, and then deliberately looked away. "What about the other guy you married? What did you see in him, anyway?"

"Joel?" Nikki's mouth twisted, and she took a deliberate long draft from her coffee cup. "He wasn't reckless."

"Oh."

"He planned everything ahead and was – very meticulous. It made me feel, well, secure. Of course, he still managed to surprise me." Nikki made a sour face.

Lisa dug into the cooler and found the container of apple cider to refill her own mug. "Nikki, aren't you MacGyver's boss now?"

"Well, yes. And Sam's. And Petra was dropping some broad hints about how soon baby spies are allowed to start training – no, she didn't actually put it that way, but it's what she meant."

"Is that harder to deal with, or easier?"

"I wouldn't know. I never had a baby spy to train."

"_Nikki!_"

Nikki laughed. Her coffee cup was empty. She ignored the half-empty bottle of wine, snagged the apple cider from Lisa's hand and refilled with that instead. "I'm still working it out. But Pete told me years ago that I had to learn to deal with Mac, and that I'd need to look after him, and I'm not about to let him down . . . oh, hell, why did I just tell you that?"

"I won't tell him. I promise."

"Thanks."

- x -_  
_

MacGyver waved cheerfully at the chopper as it rose from the field and headed back to civilisation. He could imagine the scene inside, with Petra trying to wave as best as she could and get closer to the windows in spite of being firmly strapped down. AnnaRose would have her face buried in her mother's lap until they were high enough that she couldn't see the ground clearly. After that, she'd be all right until it was time to come down again.

Mac drew a deep breath, testing his lungs and chest to see if his family's absence would bring a return of crushing pain and emptiness. The stack of firewood was still there, and the axe and the chopping block, if he needed it . . . it hadn't been just for Sam and Lisa's benefit, keeping the girls out of school for an extra week and a half, keeping 'Grampa' busy and distracted and harrassed and entertained.

The westering sun was bright on the treetops – the hemlocks were showing bright green ends of new growth on every branch, and the air was fresh and still warm. Mac's chest didn't tighten up or crush inwards. He could feel his heart beating, strong and secure. He headed back down the short trail to the cabin.

The sense of warmth and security lasted until he put his hand on the handle of the cabin door. The conviction hit him like a wash of ice water: he _wasn't_ alone up here, he'd missed something, someone was _in the cabin_ . . . he flung the door open and saw Nikki standing by his fireplace.

The impulse to yell at her died when he saw what she was holding.

She looked up at him, and her eyes and cheeks sparkled damply. She made a wordless gesture at the framed photo she held, and finally blurted out, "This wasn't here before, was it?"

"No." Mac heard how curt the word sounded, and made himself add, "Sam brought it up with him. He said he thought it was time."

"So he has the others?"

"Yup."

"Was he right?" Her voice was very soft.

"I guess so."

She studied the picture again, making no effort to wipe away the tears that were sliding unashamedly down her face. The photo was actually a montage; MacGyver remembered the photo session, and how Sam had grumbled about how the candid shots had been so easy and the posed shot had been so hard.

The central image was the posed photograph: Pete holding his infant namesake, Petra's round dark eyes agog at the camera, her mouth open in apparent astonishment. Something in the shape of the jaw and the fascinated expression of the eyes was uncannily reminiscent of MacGyver's own face, more so than any baby girl should have looked. Pete was beaming, his eyes bright, no hint of how little those eyes could actually catch of the world around them, the shiny new world that so fascinated the child in his lap.

Around the central image were selected candid shots from the same session: Pete making faces at a crowing Petra, Petra grabbing Pete's nose, both of them pulling serious faces when Lisa attempted to intervene. Mac's favourite shot showed Petra grasping Pete's necktie in both hands and gumming it enthusiastically – as he recalled, the tie had been ruined; not even dry cleaning could remove the stains from the baby slobber. _Attagirl, Petra._

Nikki swallowed visibly. "I still think of it as 'our' office, you know."

"Yeah?" Mac's voice was gentle now.

"Even though I had to have the second desk taken away. I had that done first thing. A lot of people didn't like it . . . I know there was some real bitching on the employee forums."

"I never gave you a hard time over it."

"No, you didn't." She replaced the photo on the mantelpiece. "What about the others?"

"The other pictures? Maybe, eventually . . . I'm still not too sure about this one . . . Nikki, what the heck are you doin' still here?"

She glanced over at the table, and Mac's gaze followed the look. He saw the plain white envelope sitting there on the nearly bare surface – his guests had cleaned up after themselves – and he scowled. "_Nikki_ – "

"Calm down, MacGyver." Her voice clicked back into the clear, cool, unimpressed tone that he was familiar with. Good. "Read it before you start making a fuss."

"It's a new contract, isn't it? I _told_ you – "

"Read it and find out."

Mac folded his arms and glowered down at her. "Nikki, don't you _get it?_ I'm too darned – too _damned_ old to run around the planet playing hero."

Nikki looked pointedly around the cabin – at the hockey stick and well-worn skates on their nail, the binoculars on another nail beside the backpacking frame, the computer with its panel of lights, the unstable stacks of books and periodicals, the fishing tackle and rods, the tools and gadgets and half-built widgets. The cabin was nearly bursting with the paraphernalia of an active mind and equally active physical lifestyle.

"Sure. Says the man whose name is a verb."

MacGyver winced. "Did you _have_ to bring that up? You _know_ how I hate that – "

"_Fine!_ Never mind that part. MacGyver, you are _never_ going to stop doing things. You _can't_. You can't stay uninvolved, and you can't keep from caring, and you wouldn't if you could. And if you run halfway around the world to stay away from trouble, it'll just run the other way around and meet you on the far side." She picked up the envelope and thrust it at him. "So you might as well make the best of it. Will you just _read_ it already?"

Mac opened the envelope, unfolded the sheets of paper and started to skim through the writing. She watched him read, tapping his fingers against the paper with that impatient, restless energy. It was his biggest weakness as an operative: he could be patient, but it was hard for him to be still. He was better at stalking than at stakeouts.

And his face could be so transparent. She watched the changing expressions flow across it as he read, watched him shift from skimming to close reading, watched the astonishment open up into glee – the glee quickly masked with caginess, but not quickly enough. She guessed he'd reached the section guaranteeing tenancy of the cabin as a perk of the part-time research position, and now he was hunting for the catch. He seemed faintly deflated when he didn't find one.

Mac finished reading and looked up to meet her eyes. "'Consulting work'? Is that what we're gonna call it now?" His own eyes glinted. "How hard did you have to fight the Board to get them to sign off on all this?"

Nikki's smile became faintly wicked. "Oh, I made _them_ fight. I kept telling them that you wouldn't agree to it, and every time I said that, they sweated harder and sweetened the offer some more. By the end, they were practically begging me to keep you from leaving."

"This is _exactly_ . . . Nikki, you're _terrific_."

"I'm selfish. You're the best operative Phoenix has ever had. Sam is good, but you're better, and if I can't have you full-time I want you on call." She cocked her head at his confounded look. "No, I have not been replaced with my evil twin."

"You sure?" Mac smiled, but the easy humour didn't reach his eyes. Nikki winced.

"Hell. I'm sorry. I forgot that evil twins aren't all that funny any more."

Mac shrugged, and the shadow left his eyes after a moment.

"I know you need right of refusal, and there's plenty you can do from right here, if you don't want to travel. Besides, if you actually try to leave, Willis will hunt you down and pick your brain unless you go all the way off the grid permanently." She grinned at him, pulled a pen out of her pocket and held it out to him.

"Yeah, I bet you're right . . . " He met her eyes, studied her, not reaching for the pen. She swallowed, hard.

"I'm the one who has Pete's legacy to carry out – and carry on. You know what he wanted, what he worked for and dreamed of . . . Mac, I don't want to have to do that without your help."

MacGyver glanced out the window of the cabin, towards the woodpile and the chopping block. He bit his lip, nodded, set the sheaf of papers down on the table and flipped to the final page. Nikki handed him the pen, and he scrawled his name, and watched as she signed underneath.

"Nikki, you wrote the wrong date."

"No, I didn't." She tossed the pen onto the table and ignored the small clatter as it rolled away and dropped onto the floor.

"That's the day after tomorrow."

"Yes, it is." She had been standing close to him, but now she was a lot closer. A _lot._

"What . . . ? Um, Nikki . . . ?" Somehow, he'd backed away from the table, and now the back of the couch was bumping against his legs, and she was even closer, and he couldn't retreat any farther. _Stupid place to put the danged couch . . . _And he could smell sunlight and fresh air on Nikki's hair, and he wasn't sure why he wanted to retreat. A few minutes ago, there had been a good reason, he was sure of that, if he could just remember it.

"Technically, this confirms me as your boss – once it's officially in place. I like to plan ahead, MacGyver." She was murmuring now, and Mac was having trouble following what she was saying. Too much else was starting to happen, and it was very distracting. "Suppose something was going on at, say, midnight, something that I really might not want to have to stop . . . "

" . . . stop?" MacGyver swallowed hard; he was getting light-headed. "Nikki . . . what the heck are you doing . . . ?"

"Breaking the anti-fraternisation rules."

"Phoenix doesn't _have_ anti-fraternisation rules – "

"Technically, Phoenix doesn't. _**I**_ do."

On second thought, the couch was in just the right place, and so were they.

Somewhat later, it was Nikki's turn to ask, but not in alarm. "Mac, what are you doing – "

"Two marriages, and you still need it explained? C'mon."

"Oh. Ohhh . . . right . . . "

_Oh, yeah . . . it's __all__ right._

_~ fin ~_

_

* * *

_

- x -**  
**

**Subjective Complement**

- x -**  
**

The inevitable notes, acknowledgements, and list of Interesting Reading Material.

I would _never _have been able to write this without the help of:

Melissa – small children and animals, and how to tell the difference  
Jess – medical reseach, and details on horse behaviour  
Robin – chemical research, and more details on horsemanship  
Naomi – still more details on horses!  
Liz – dynamite and firearms  
Pepper and Kirsty – London geography and local colour  
Theo and Glenn – airplanes and helicopters

And, as always, Lothithil, for indispensable support, encouragement, and canon checks.

Any errors in Spanish must rest entirely upon my own head.

- x -

A note on surnames: Peru follows the classical Spanish surnaming practice of using both a matronym and a patronym. A woman's surnames do not change when she marries – she does not take a surname from her husband, but does pass her own patronym on to her children, along with her husband's patronym.

Thus, Esperanza Rojas Carrera, known as Esperanza Rojas, is the wife of Carlos Sandoval Fuentes, known as Carlos Sandoval; their son is Félix Sandoval Rojas, generally referred to as Félix Sandoval.

- x -

A few terms that might not be familiar:

_IncaKola_ – a bright gold soft drink, more popular in its native Peru than the foreign upstarts Coke and Pepsi.

_monita_ – 'little monkey'. (Concepción's nickname)

_Sendero Luminoso_, aka Shining Path, from the 'Shining Path of Communism', also known as _Partido Comunista Peruano_ (PCP), or simply _Sendero_.

_senderista_ – a member of Shining Path.

_emmertista_ – member of the MRTA, a less prominent and far less murderous rival party during the Peruvian civil strife. By later estimates, of the 70,000 civilians who died or disappeared during the years of crisis, some 65% were killed by Shining Path, 5% by the MRTA (possibly far less), and 30% by the Peruvian Army and other governmental forces.

_pishtaco_ – a demonic monster in Peruvian myth, analagous to a vampire. A _pishtaco _does not suck blood; it boils people alive for their grease. This mythological being is strongly identified with the Spanish conquerers, and with the ruling class.

_pozo_ – the pit in which coca leaf is processed into coca paste, the first of the three main steps in turning coca into cocaine.

_traquatero_ – a coca smuggler. Base cocaine paste is flown from Peru to other countries for final processing, with the _traquateros _as the middlemen.

_Asháninka_ – one of the indigenous groups in Peru, predating the Spanish conquest. The Asháninka were regarded as fierce warriors, consummate in woodcraft. They were enslaved by Shining Path more often than they were recruited, and were more successful than most in fighting back.

- x -

There was the usual Massive Amount of Research involved. A few books were particularly valuable in immersion into Peru and its struggles:

Simon Strong, _Shining Path: Terror and Revolution in Peru_, 1992.

John Simpson, _In the Forests of the Night: Encounters in Peru With Terrorism, Drug-Running and Military Oppression_, 1993.

Steve J. Stern, editor, _Shining and Other Paths: War and Society in Peru, 1980-1995_, 1998.

C. A. Schmidt, _Useful Fools_, 2007.

Santiago Roncagliolo, _Red April_, 2009.

For details of Mount Pilchuck, I climbed the danged thing myself, and you should too. It's rugged but breathtaking.

I have no sources to cite for the Chemical Wizardry and Havoc, other than my indispensable expert Robin, and various websites on cocaine processing that you can Google for yourself. I could say "Do not try this at home", but you shouldn't try it _anywhere_, especially not in Peru.

- x -


End file.
